


All Right, Tonight

by jedishampoo



Series: All Right, Tonight Duology [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Lawyers, F/M, France/Seychelles, M/M, Rick Springfield fanboy, South Korea/Female Portugal (OFC), UKUS, lots of guest appearances, ukxus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 00:25:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 41,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedishampoo/pseuds/jedishampoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Attorney Arthur Kirkland gets a new divorce client - Alfred Jones. Things heat up between them but they'll need to get their heads out of their own behinds long enough to really see each other.  Deanon from the Hetalia kink meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The alarm clock sounded, a pleasant bonging of bells that grew in volume slowly, a sound designed to pry one gently from slumber. Arthur had no wish to be pried. He poked his hand out from under his covers to hit the snooze button.

A mere few moments later -- at least, it felt like a few moments -- the alarm chimed again, and this time the _bong_ ing was louder, to alert one that it was possibly growing time to arise, if one pleased.

_Snooze._

Once more the clock sounded, the third alarm a harsh symphony with fewer pretensions to gentility. Arthur must have hit snooze again, because his alarm next told him, in his own recorded voice, to "get up, layabout; it's time to greet the day because you have work to do." 

Arthur groaned and swept his blankets from his face to greet the day. It was a gray day, if the bleary light leaking in from under his shades was any indication. A typical February Tuesday in Chicago. Arthur turned off the clock. He had no wish to hear the next alarm, which also was his recorded voice, this time cursing himself for being a lazy cunt and other nasty things. 

He'd bought the alarm clock at an little electronics shop in Tokyo and had felt terribly technological for the purchase. He had many such items, sleek, tasteful souvenirs that had caught his fancy. Travel was his escape and buying things in faraway places sometimes felt like conquering the world. 

Some of the things were useful and some merely objets d'art. He'd arranged them around his condo in the hopes that they would proclaim him a homosexual, half-British gentleman of discernment. But they were mostly silent on that score, since people rarely came 'round.

His friend Portia dismissed them as gimcracks and gewgaws. She admitted to loving his antique French writing desk, however, and spent an unseemly amount of time fondling its knobs and gilt edges.

At least something in Arthur's home was being regularly fondled. Arthur sighed and rolled out of bed.

He set the electric kettle to boiling and brushed his teeth. He steeped his tea and combed his hair and sighed at his reflection. People around the world performed this sort of routine every day; he chided himself for finding it unfulfilling. In an attempt to improve his mood he dressed in a new suit, a brown one that he'd been told was stylish yet soberly professional enough for an attorney of his stature. He drank his tea and drove to the office.

There'd been more of these sorts of mornings lately, those mornings where even the allure of law could hardly drag him from his bed. While he may have noticed the pattern, Arthur did not care to examine it. Perhaps Portia was correct and he needed to leave the house more for things that weren't work? It was just that socializing was so ... wearying and difficult. Having a personal life meant expending a lot of effort for very little payoff.

Or maybe it was simply past time he took another trip.

When Arthur finally strode into the offices of Andersen and Kirkland at eight-thirty, the suite was already permeated with the smell of everyone's morning coffee. The smell didn't annoy him as much as it had used to; it seemed he was getting used to it. Twelve years in the States had taught him that the American legal system was powered by coffee, ego, and paralegals.

Perhaps an overdose of caffeine was the reason his assistant was fairly hopping in her seat.

"Good morning, Mr. Kirkland," she said as he approached. Her purple lipstick surrounded a very wide, white grin.

"Good morning, Monaca," he said.

"I like your suit."

"Thank you."

The smiling and bouncing continued unabated. 

"Yes?" he said and stopped by her desk.

"Guess who you have a ten o'clock with, Mr. Kirkland!"

Arthur resisted the urge to pull out his pocket planner or his new smartphone, and instead sorted his calendar in his brain. It was more accurate and he was more used to using it, anyway.

"That would be the Tuesday department review with Ms. Zwingli?" Lili Zwingli was the office manager. "Then an update meeting with the Lukes at eleven, lunch with Mr. Andersen at twelve-thirty, the Edelstein custody hearing at two. Speaking of, did Ms. Martens get that research done and into the Edelstein file?"

"Yeah, she had that yesterday. The file is on your desk," Monaca said.. "I moved Lili. For a new client."

Arthur sighed. "But I haven't approved any new clients--"

" _Possible_ new client."

"Thank you." They'd had The Talk more than once about preciseness in speech.

"Possible new divorce client with substantial property," Monaca continued. _Bounce._

"Yes?"

"A Mr. Alfred Jones. _The_ Mr. Alfred F. Jones."

"Jones. He's..." Arthur trailed off. He'd heard that name before. Or he'd read that name before. He sorted the last couple months' worth of business sections through his brain-file. Monaca leaned forward, nodding as if to say _that's it, that's it, you'll get it!_ "Of AFJ Holdings?"

"Yes!"

Arthur frowned. Saying "substantial property" wouldn't even begin to cover what might be involved in such a case. Property was what _The_ Mr. Alfred Jones did. He was one of the biggest developers in Chicago.

"To see me?" Arthur looked at Monaca. "Strange. He doesn't already have sufficient representation?"

Monaca shrugged. "F.H. Bonnefoy is his regular counsel. He referred him to you for the family law matter. His secretary called me right at, like, eight-oh-one to schedule."

"Whose secretary?"

"Mr. Bonnefoy's."

"Ah," Arthur said. F.H. was one of those hard-edged business types with a smooshy romantic center, the type who could tear down a real-estate competitor but who cowered from the emotional baggage that surrounded family proceedings. 

It was a fortunate referral. This could be a very high-profile case, and likely very profitable. Still, he'd have to review the specifics before agreeing to represent Jones. Arthur had a reputation among his colleagues for fussiness, but he refused to take just anything that was thrown at him. Personal life nothwithstanding, Arthur valued his professional time highly and not everyone could afford him. Though Jones could. "Did they send over the paperwork?"

Monaca furrowed her black, precisely trimmed eyebrows. "They said he'd bring the papers with him, which I know is weird. But I guess his wife is filing. Bella looked on the doxpop and there's nothing online at the clerk's office yet."

"Good. Have her check again at nine-thirty, please." He glanced down at Monaca's desk. She had a neon pink sticky note on her desk, with "JOnES @ 10 RICHH!!!" scrawled on it in black marker. She saw him looking and her teeth closed more tightly inside her smile. Her purple fingernails scrabbled across the desk to cover it.

"You should probably tear that up," he told her.

"Yes, Mr. Kirkland," Monaca said. Arthur heard the sound of ripping paper as he moved past her desk into his office. 

Monaca had been in the there already. His blinds had been opened onto the city, the sprawling mess of a city with its traffic and smog. The strip of Lake Michigan visible from his window, sometimes very pretty, was gray and dreary. Just like at home.

Arthur had moved away from England for a change of weather, a change of world, but it seemed he was destined for the same discontent the UK had offered. He hated to think he'd brought it with him.

Well. Arthur shook his head and turned from the window. He had a good practice and a stellar reputation. And a very efficient staff: the Edelstein file was laid neatly and squarely on his blotter, barely disturbing the ordered lines of his desk. In addition, Monaca had already powered up his PC and brought up the website for AFJ Holdings.

Arthur sat. He started to reach for a pack of cigarettes that wasn't there. Oh, yes, he'd quit, hadn't he? Not that state code would allow him to smoke in his own office, even if he hadn't. How dreary.

Well, perhaps a new, distinguished client would make getting out of bed worthwhile. AFJ Holdings had a nice website, spare and slick. Arthur was no particular judge of technological matters, but he dearly hated those websites where things popped up and danced everywhere. Not long ago he'd tried to access online pornography from his old laptop at home, and had promptly picked up a computer virus from such a site. He'd set the laptop aside and had never tried again. Sex of any kind, whether electronic or in the flesh, was so much trouble, anymore.

He clicked the "about us" link on the website: the usual corporate mission statement that appeared was enhanced by a green sort of sentiment about buying and beautifying properties for the common enjoyment. Hmm. He clicked on the "about our founder" link.

A spectacled man with sun-bleached hair grinned out at him from the webpage. Rather than going for a standard company CEO-style studio photo, Jones had chosen to have his picture taken at a lakeside construction site. He was jacketless and his shirtsleeves were rolled up, showing tanned hands fisted on his hips. Likely he'd been meant to be shown beautifying properties himself, to make the point how much he cared. He was also younger than Arthur would have thought, perhaps in his late twenties. It was likely an old photo and Jones was simply vain.

Because the smiling man in the picture was attractive. He wasn't male model material by any means, but he looked fit and his smile was nice. Very genuine. Looking at it made Arthur's belly flutter a little.

Arthur sighed. So he was male, and a visual creature. Not that such a thing mattered in business. He searched for whatever other information he could discover about Jones. 

He found several news articles that mentioned him, most of them to do with business transactions of one kind or another, and a couple of "about-town" style mentions, stating that he and his wife Mariel had attended some fundraiser here or party there.

Soon-to-be-ex wife Mariel, it seemed. Arthur wished he had the filing to review before meeting Jones. Would it be a monster of a case with months' worth of settlement litigation, or one of those bitter affairs with copious weeping and wrestling over parenting time? Or both? 

Arthur read as much as he could in preparation. By nine-thirty, no filing had yet appeared on the court's online docket, and by ten, Jones was there. Arthur could hear a man's loudish voice outside his office, and Monaca's higher-pitched tones. Within moments she buzzed him and said in a bright voice, "Mr. Jones is here to see you, Mr. Kirkland."

"Thank you, Ms. Carlo. Show him in," Arthur said.

Arthur stood and straightened his jacket. He found himself looking in the decorative mirror on his office wall. It was meant to showcase the Italian glass sitting on the chrome shelf before it, but if he wanted, Arthur could catch a glimpse of his own reflection. He saw the same thing he saw in his bathroom mirror every morning: yellow hair that refused to lay flat, thick Churchill eyebrows, unremarkable nose, unremarkable green eyes. He did think his suit's warm color was kind to his complexion. Otherwise, he was nothing special to look at. Thankfully he was a very good attorney.

Jones, on the other hand, was much better-looking than expected. Arthur felt his stomach flop a little, like his world had turned sideways for an instant. Meeting Jones in person was like the difference between seeing the Grand Canyon in photographs and experiencing it at its very edge, complete with that sense of boundless depths, like you could just fling yourself into empty space and float forever. 

Jones had long limbs that moved with a quick grace and energy as he stepped forward and thrust out his hand.

"Hi. I'm Alfred Jones. Frannie said you were the best."

"Ah?" Arthur shook his hand. Jones's grip was solid and warm enough to hold him grounded. "Hello, Mister Jones. Arthur Kirkland." 

Jones was a little taller than Arthur, perhaps an inch or so, and of medium build. One thing his photo had gotten right was his age; he was young -- at least, younger than Arthur's thirty-five. Quite young to have amassed such an empire in real estate. 

Jones's blue eyes behind his spectacles had widened as Arthur spoke. "Oh my god, you have a British accent. That's awesome."

"Indeed. Er, thank you," Arthur said, a little embarrassed. 

"Where are you from? England? I mean, the UK? Someplace over there, anyway?"

"Yes, England. I grew up in Oxford," Arthur said, trying to sound polite and not ... eye-rolly. At least Jones's uncultured-sounding brand of American brashness offset the vertigo he engendered. Somewhat. 

"Is that close to London? I was in London once."

"Er, somewhat." Arthur composed himself and gestured to one of the seats in front of his desk. Like the smell of coffee, uncultured and brash businesspeople were another thing he'd gotten used to while living in the U.S. "Do you travel?"

"Only for business! I figure I'll have time to actually look at stuff when I retire."

 _A pity._ "So how can I help you, Mr. Jones?"

"Call me Al." It seemed like Jones winked, but Arthur couldn't be sure. He waved a manila envelope. "I guess I'm getting divorced."

"I'm sorry to hear of the end of your marriage, Mr. Jones."

"Al. And it wasn't a surprise, really." Mr. Jones -- Al -- plopped into the chair with an _oof_. He crossed his long legs. He was wearing socks with stars and stripes on them. " Mariel -- my wife -- moved out a few months ago. She said she wanted space. Like nobody's ever heard that before, right? But I guess it was time."

"Ah. Thank you," Arthur said, taking the envelope as Mr. Jones - Al -- held it out to him. He opened it and laid the papers on his desk. It was a dissolution pleading with no court stamp. An unfiled copy.

"Do you know when she plans to file?" Arthur asked as he scanned the caption: _State of Illinois, County of Cook, Mariel Jones v. Alfred Jones._

"Today, she said. At least, that's what her sister said, since her sister was the one who brought me the paperwork last night."

"Hmm. We did not see a filing as of nine-thirty this morning; things may change from this copy to the official court document. So this is not a proper service of process. She -- ah-- may not even file."

Jones's forehead wrinkled a little for the first time. "Why else would she give it to me?"

"To get your attention, perhaps? To prompt a reconciliation?" Jones continued to look stymied. Arthur swallowed a sigh. He'd never been very good at playing psychologist, and he hadn't expected it in this case. He had learned, however, which questions to ask. "Are you sure she wishes to be divorced, Mr. Jones?"

Jones crossed his arms. "Al. And, well, yeah. I mean, she does, obviously. She's the one who left me."

Arthur set the papers aside. This might be a waste of his time. He sat up straight. "How about you? Do you want to be divorced?" 

Jones frowned. "Yeah. I guess.”

“Are you sure?” Arthur really didn’t want to have The Preciseness In Speech Talk with a prospective client.

“Yes."

Arthur offered a small smile. "If you like, we can proceed with this consultation, then, as if she had indeed filed this document. Is that agreeable?"

Jones nodded and his forehead unwrinkled at last. "Yes. I just want to get this moving. Get my ducks in a row right away. "

Arthur raised an eyebrow. So Jones was one of those who expected the world to jump around him and then fall into place. He didn't seem to realize that Arthur hadn't even reviewed or agreed to take his case, but it felt impolitic to mention that until necessary; Arthur was used to dealing with people who had a great deal of money and personal delusions of power. And, in his experience, the legal system did seem to jump about them. As an attorney, he himself had to juggle the desires of his clients -- who paid him -- with his own advice and preferences in any legal situation.

"Well, Mr. Jones, divorce can be an emotional, intimate and painful process," the indifferent psychologist in him said. "I will need to ask you some personal questions."

"Ha ha. More? Okay, yeah." Jones shifted in his chair. He didn't ask again to be called "Al." Arthur felt like he'd gained a point, anyway.

"Thank you. First, I must ask how long you've been married, and if you've been separated at least six months? State law requires six months for a no-fault divorce."

"Eight years this May. And, uh, not quite. Maybe four months?"

"I'm surprised she didn't wait, though by the time the documents would go before a judge, the six-month requirement will have been met." Arthur gestured over at the papers. "What do you think about her requests?"

"Aww, I haven't read 'em. That's what you lawyers are for, right?" 

"Wha-- oh, yes, of course, but--" Arthur started. Surely the man wasn't serious? Just because he was rich and good-looking, did he think he ... And Arthur decided to try and scratch that from his own mental equation. There was no way Jones could possibly be as blithe and clueless as he appeared. Perhaps he was being disingenuous. Arthur slid the not-filing back over to his blotter and flipped through the pages, scanning the document for the pertinent details. 

"I tried to call her just to talk about it, but she wouldn't answer," Jones added.

"Hmm." Arthur read quickly. "Irreconcilable differences are her grounds, which is general enough. I see you have no children."

"No, thank God." 

Well, that would make things easier. Hmm. No protective order had been filed and there was no mention of spousal abuse... Ah-- there was something taped to one of the inside pages. 

It was a handwritten note on a sheet of lavender, lined paper. Um, interesting. _I know you won't even bother to read this. You are emotionally distant and that makes it impossible to discuss anything about us. Still, I'm sure you were expecting this. Plus, Alfred, you are gay--_ gay was underlined twice -- _and maybe we'll both have better relationships with other men--_

Arthur forced himself to stop reading. "Ah. Mr. Jones. There is a note inside here for you. I read part of it, pardon." He handed the stack of papers across his desk. Jones leaned forward, eyes wide. 

"What?"

"Shall I give you a moment alone to--"

Jones waved at Arthur without looking, his eyes behind his glasses intent on the page. "No, just gimme a sec. What? Really, Mariel?" 

Arthur resisted the urge to clear his throat and renew his offer of privacy. But Jones read the note in record time and looked up at Arthur again. He slapped the stack of papers against his thigh and then held them out for Arthur. Not knowing what else to do, Arthur took them.

"I can't believe she-- Plus, I'm not _gay._ God."

"Oh?" Arthur said in a bland voice. He tried not to sneer. Jones was probably one of those Type-A homophobes.

"I'm bi."

"Oh," Arthur said, managing not to choke.

"Yeah, and she knew that. At least, you'd think she did. I mean, I was married to her for eight years. It's not like we didn't have enough sex."

"Ah?" Arthur swallowed, unable to stop listening to Jones's ramble.

"And it's not like my past was a surprise. I met her the night I broke up with my boyfriend. She was the owner of the restaurant where Ivan -- my ex -- dumped me."

"Oh."

"Yeah." Jones shrugged. He sat back in his chair and tapped his lips with his pen. "Maybe she was more upset about that threesome with her friend Felix than she let on? I mean, it was her idea in the first place. God, Mariel, what crawled up your ass?"

 _Felix, maybe?_ Arthur managed not to say it aloud but was unable to stop the mental image his brain conjured of Al -- Jones -- in a sexual threesome. Arthur's heart may have been secure and his practice choosy, but his gonads were utterly indiscriminate. 

He needed to get back to business. Jones was being a font of information, but not the information necessary to get the proceedings back on track. "Ah, Mr. Jones, perhaps the rest of the document will reveal further information we can discuss now, even if it is not a proper-- would you like this note?"

Jones shook his head and crossed his arms. "Nah. Keep it. Toss it. I don't care."

Perhaps Mrs. Jones was not far off about her husband's emotional inaccessibility. Well, it took one to know one. Not for the first time, Arthur was thankful that he'd avoided such entanglements. He peeled the note off and folded it unobtrusively to the side. He flipped the pages. Mrs. Jones did not seem to be requesting a lump sum or spousal maintenance. There were, however, a large number of exhibits regarding property. 

"It seems she plans to request a great deal of real estate."

"I just want to do whatever she wants. To get this over with."

Arthur frowned without meaning to. "She claims that she supported you through your MBA and thus she deserves fully half of your property, their earnings and dividends."

"Huh? Really? I mean, she was totally supportive. But it's not like we paid rent, because I owned our building."

Arthur made a note to that effect. _What property before marriage? CPA? Bonnefoy?_ "I must ask-- you have a lot at stake here. Why don't you want to fight this -- any of it?"

He sensed more than saw Jones's shrug. "Well, I still care about her. We were totally in love once. You don't just get over that right away, you know?"

Arthur wondered if Jones had ever told his wife that. "Hmm. I shall never fall in love."

Arthur heard a noise that sounded like "ha." Arthur couldn't believe he'd said it; feeling his cheeks heat, he glanced up to see Jones staring at him with a raised eyebrow. 

"Pardon my familiarity," Arthur said.

"Nah. I like it." Jones waved a tanned hand at him. "Not what you said, because that's stupid. But I like knowing what the people I work with are like. What they're thinking. I'm gonna hire you."

"Well, I must first decide if I'm going to take your case, Mr. Jones," Arthur said. He had some pride, dammit, even when faced with a handsome and admittedly fascinating puzzle. A puzzle who sounded like a college boy with a gaping chasm of a clueless streak. How had Jones possibly amassed such a fortune? "Any one of my associates could handle a case where the client wishes to roll over. I prefer a client who will trust me to protect his or her interests."

Jones smiled again, a dangerous thing for Arthur's innards. "Haha! I like the idea of you protecting my interests, Arthur."

"Hmm," Arthur said. Americans! And their propensity for casual use of first names. "Is your wife currently employed?"

Al -- _Jones,_ dammit-- nodded. "Yeah. She directs operations at three of my properties. Mary's at Lincoln Park, Americana on Grant, and Evolve. On--"

"Rush Street," Arthur supplied.

Jones's eyes brightened. "Yeah! Have you been there?"

"No, I'm sorry," Arthur said. He'd merely recognized the names of all the establishments, even if he hadn't patronized them. The first two were bar/restaurants, and the last was a "progressive" -- meaning LGBT-oriented -- downtown nightclub.

"Oh. Because -- well -- never mind, I guess. Okay. It's a really cool place."

"I'm sure," Arthur said with what he hoped was a general smile. Inwardly, however, he wondered what that "never mind" had been about. He swallowed. "I'm sorry to come back to it, but it seems strange to me that, considering what she wants, she gave this to you before she formally filed for divorce."

Jones's eyebrows drew down in an expression of innocent puzzlement. "I know, right? Huh."

There must be something else going on that Jones was forgetting to mention, Arthur thought. Or, considering the note, neglecting to mention out of a sense of guilt. Well, he, Arthur, would uncover it. If he took that case, that was. He opened the document to the last page, the signature page, to see who the attorney for the petitioner was. It was Ludwig Beilschmidt. Arthur couldn't _stand_ the man. He began to see why Bonnefoy had sent him this case. It seemed tailor-made for him.

If Arthur could get past the fact that Jones was an obvious, if good-looking, idiot who had probably inherited his money, and past any interest his own gonads had despite that fact, this case would be a very satisfying challenge. And he was totally going to take it, wasn't he? Arthur sighed. He was such a jelly, sometimes.

“Well, if you truly want to end your marriage, the first thing I would recommend would be a cross-petition for dissolution. That way, if she does not pursue her case, you will have a filing of your own and will not need to re-file in the future, dragging out your divorce and paying more court fees.” 

“Sounds good.”

That was all he had to say about his own strategy. He needed a bloody keeper, for Christ’s sake.

"May I have this copy of the document for further review?" Arthur asked.

"Abso _lu_ tely, Arthur," Jones said. He smiled. He smiled like a cat would smile, if cats could. It dampened the innocence of his expression. He unfurled from his chair and stood. He placed his palms on Arthur's desk and leaned forward, so far forward that Arthur could smell his cologne. Arthur perforce stood as well and for a moment it seemed almost as if Jones meant to _kiss_ him, so much had he invaded Arthur's space. But then he stuck out his open palm, thumb up. "Great to have you on my team."

Before Arthur could protest or indeed even have second thoughts, he found himself clasping hands with Jones once more. "I will --- ah -- be in touch," he managed to say.

"Fantastic." Jones released his hand and strode, long-legged, for the door, rushing out as quickly as he'd blown in. Arthur practically jogged to reach the door first and open it; it was his office, after all. Jones paused in the open doorway, and it seemed as if he looked Arthur up and down for a bold moment. "Nice suit, by the way," he said.

To his mortification, Arthur felt his cheeks heat. He hated, hated, hated that he blushed so easily. "Thank you," he said and turned away quickly, but not quickly enough to miss Jones's grin.

Behind him, Monaca giggled. "Bye-bye!" she called at Jones as he left.

When he was sure Jones was gone, Arthur turned and gave Monaca a Look. "Bye-bye?"

Her face crinkled with amusement. "Sorry, Mr. Kirkland."

He sighed. "If Ms. Zwingli is available, please let her know that I am free for a few minutes."

He'd have a short department review-- Lili was a tiny blonde who ran his office like a Swiss watch-- and then he'd set himself and his paralegals to reviewing the Jones file until lunch.

In fact, the official court filing appeared online at eleven-thirty; it was the same as their copy, just as Jones had said it would be. So he wasn't one-hundred-percent deluded, anyway. Arthur took the file home with him that night. He did force himself to set work aside long enough to go to the gym, but he put off dinner with Portia until the next evening.

***

On Wednesday, Arthur was pried gently from slumber at the first alarm. He was in the office by seven forty-five, before the coffee smell, and noticed it by its absence, along with the time. He was surprised. It seemed a legal challenge could still get him excited enough about life to get out of bed, even if it felt sometimes like the wrong kind of excited.

He turned on his computer and resisted the urge to Google-image search Alfred Jones. He did have an e-mail from Bonnefoy. He was asking what Arthur wanted as a retainer for the Jones divorce, and promising to arrange a wire transfer right away. he also added that Arthur could just call him personally with the routing numbers, so they could catch up with each other.

Bonnefoy was slick as a Frenchman—or, at least, a Quebec Frenchman, which is what Bonnefoy was. Arthur snorted and typed a reply thanking him politely for the referral and naming a rather high figure. When Monaca came in, Arthur had her call Bonnefoy's assistant with the bank information.

Still, there was something strange about the whole situation. Why hadn't Mariel Jones been able to wait two more months to file for divorce, and why did Jones seem so unwilling to care about what he’d spent so much time building? 

When the bank transfer and retainer agreement came through later that morning, Arthur filed an appearance with the court, which meant he was officially on to the case. There would be no rolling over. He got the name of Jones’s CPA from Bonnefoy’s secretary, and set his legal team to work. 

Of course, he’d have to meet with Bonnefoy personally sooner rather than later. Jones had been busy since he'd gotten married. He had indeed inherited some of his wealth, but that wealth had increased substantially over the last eight years. The trick would be discerning whether all of that property was eligible to be split evenly, as Mrs. Jones had asserted. Or, if not to be split, which real estate and revenues would go to her and which would remain with Jones. 

Jones hadn't seemed to care, but Arthur was going to be paid to care. He would have to meet or at least speak with Jones again, soon, if only to determine which properties he was personally attached to. Then Arthur would make his suggestions.

Unfortunately, Arthur was booked for the rest of Wednesday and unable to pay the attention to the file that he wished. It was a draining day, as well, with the fallout from the Edelstein's custody case -- the child was apparently a musical prodigy and his divorced parents were arguing over who would have a greater proportion of control over his schooling. Father wanted him to go to Vienna, but the mother wanted him to remain in the country. 

The hearing yesterday had not gone well for Arthur's client, Mr. Edelstein. The courts were generally opposed to relocation and Austria was very far away. But he and his client weren't giving up; Arthur was trying to encourage Mr. Edelstein to accept split schooling for the child, to acquire "diverse acculturation."

Sometimes clients just didn't wish to take his advice. He wondered if Jones would. 

Arthur canceled dinner with Portia again, but promised upon pain of death to meet with her on Thursday night. He even made reservations, at Americana. It would be a good idea, he told himself, to personally visit some of the properties and dinner could thus perform two functions.

Still, Arthur felt strange when he met Portia just inside the entrance of Americana at seven-thirty pm on Thursday. It was like ... even though Arthur had only met Jones once, the place had Jones's stamp on it, if that made any sense. He’d been buried in Jones’s business all day, and the aesthetics seemed like him, the haphazard-looking arrangement of tables, the rustic, unsanded wood walls hung with little rural landscapes. The waiter and sommelier had tiny, almost tasteful American flags sewn onto their waistcoats. 

"A blend of various American fusion cuisines, choosing the best and freshest from around this great nation," Portia read from the menu, squinting in the low candlelight. "Look, Arthur, the menu is divided between regions of the country. Ooh, Pacific Northwest has lots of fish. You know I love fresh seafood. How did you hear about this place?"

"Here and there," Arthur said. "So how have you been?"

Portia shrugged. She had her long, dark hair wound up off her neck into a loopy hairdo thing that was odd but attractive on her. Her black dress was trim and tasteful, showing off only half her bosom, unlike her usual more, er, bold style. However, she was wearing her diamond skull necklace and had the usual little jewels pasted onto her long nails -- her "pirate bling," as she called it. Her nails flashed in the light as she waved her hand at him. "Lonely, obviously. Or I'dve had a date and been unable to reschedule to tonight." 

"Sorry about that," Arthur said. "Big new case."

"Yeah, yeah. Ooh, this wine is actually good."

"But if you want fish we shouldn't have chosen the red right off."

Portia held up her glass. "We're not driving. We can get a white with dinner."

"True." He'd taken a cab. Arthur clinked glasses with her and sipped the cab they'd chosen for drinking. It was decently dry and leggy, not bad for California wine, which was all the restaurant offered. One thing Arthur and Portia had in common was that they were wine snobs. 

They'd taken a vacation in the south of France together, once. Portia had managed to pick up a man there, while Arthur had not. He wasn't particularly attracted to Frenchmen, anyway. 

"So tell me what happened with... de Coverly, was his name?" Arthur asked, meaning the most recent man Portia had dated. She'd e-mailed Arthur moaning that she and her boyfriend had broken up. But then, she never kept any of them very long. "The, ah, motorcycle enthusiast?"

"God," Portia said. Her fingernails winked again. "He was a poser. A weekend warrior. And awful in bed."

"Oh," Arthur said. "I'm sorry it didn't work out. But you'll find someone new."

"I know." She drained her glass and allowed Arthur to pour her a new one. "Guess what? I do have a blind date next week. My upholsterer Sherry is fixing me up. He's a master carpenter from Milwaukee. He's Korean."

Portia was an interior designer. Arthur raised his glass in salute. "Good luck."

"Thanks." She returned the salute, sipped and pointed a long fingernail at him. "How about _you_? Anything date-wise on the horizon? Did you go to that website Tony told you about?"

"I've been ... thinking about it," Arthur half-lied. He'd had some interesting sexual dreams the last couple of nights. But thinking was the extent of it. Tony had referred him to an online match site for gay men, but Arthur’s laptop was dead and he didn’t want to do any man-shopping at work, lest his IT person know too much about what kind of men Arthur liked. "About getting out there again. Some time."

"You're so lonely over here. I don't know why you don't-- hey, who's that?"

Arthur glanced up to see someone wave at him from across the restaurant and head their way. It was Alfred Jones. _Speaking of sexual dreams_. But then, one couldn't help what one dreamed. Still, Arthur felt the awful blush creeping up his neck. To be so obviously here, in a restaurant Jones owned and had specifically mentioned-- it was awkward enough to be painful. 

Jones closed in on them, his long legs winding expertly among the tables in what would otherwise have been a beeline. Arthur had seen him previously in a trim navy blue suit, but this evening he was dressed more casually, in black trousers and a striped silk button-down shirt. The top two buttons were buttoned down, exposing a tanned throat to match his hands. All his clothing clung to his athletic build. 

He halted at their tableside, standing between them so that both Arthur and Portia had to crane their necks up to look at him. 

"Arthur! Hi. Hey, you haven't called me." Jones pouted.

"Ah!" Arthur felt the flush reach his cheeks and burn. Thank heavens for the dimness of the restaurant. "The last two days have been busy, and I haven't had a chance to--" 

Portia's eyes were wide and her expression gleeful. Arthur's heart sank. "Arthur! You had a date and you didn't call him afterwards?"

"Haha! I knew it!" Jones said, flashing a brilliant grin at Portia.

"No, he's--" Arthur started, but Portia continued.

"No wonder you canceled on me. And you didn't even tell me about it, you jerk."

"-- a business associate," Arthur managed. 

"He's my divorce lawyer," Jones said, damning his own client confidentiality.

"Portia, this is Mr. Alfred--"

But Portia didn't miss much, conversationally, and she was extremely nosy. "What did you know?" she asked Jones.

"My gaydar is never wrong," Jones answered, closing his lips so that his grin was even more smug. 

"--Jones," Arthur said, loudly. "And Mr. Jones, this is my--"

"Not your girlfriend, obviously," Jones said.

"Nope," Portia said, staring at Jones with actual stars in her eyes, or maybe those were merely the reflections of the restaurant's candlelight.

" _Friend_ ," Arthur ground out. "Portia Galati."

"Nice to meet you."

"Same." They shook hands. Jones still beamed down at Portia. She did look very attractive this evening. And was Jones gaping into her _cleavage?_ Whatever the case, they managed to tear their gazes from each other to both look at Arthur. 

"So did you come to check out my place?" Jones said. He winked at Arthur; it was apparently a habit. It was an overly familiar one, but for some reason, it warmed Arthur's belly rather than his ire. Jones was everything Arthur was not used to. "How do you like it?"

"Very nice," Arthur said.

"Good wine. I can't wait to try the Alaskan salmon," Portia said, leaning her chin on her hand. It made her cleavage that much more enticing. To someone who found those sorts of things enticing, anyway. As Jones very well might.

Arthur wasn't particularly secretive about his own sexuality, nor ashamed of it. He was out. But now Jones knew something personal about him that Arthur hadn't told him. Arthur had planned to keep things on the strictest level of professionalism. 

Already Jones was making that impossible, and Arthur had represented him for only two days. If only Arthur weren't attracted to him. 

And there, he'd admitted it for what it was. Now he'd just have to make it a personal challenge to never let it show. Personal challenges were almost as engrossing as professional ones.

"The salmon's awesome." Jones waved a hand around the restaurant. "I came here to try and catch Mariel, but she's not working tonight. I suppose I ought to give up. As my lawyer, do you think that's what I should do? If she doesn't want to contact me?"

"We can discuss it. Soon," Arthur suggested. Even if Jones didn't care about airing his own private business, Arthur was going to. It was professional pride. He tried to hint that at Jones without revealing too much information to everyone around them. "I'd like to schedule a meeting with F.H., if you are available to join us."

"Frannie! Of course. How about tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow!" Arthur stared. Well, he was nearly ready, though he’d hoped to have the weekend to prepare for a meeting the first of the week. Jones clearly expected him to jump. "We'll have to see if everyone's schedule agrees--"

"I make my own schedule. And Frannie’ll make time for me." Insinuating that Arthur should, as well? “Tomorrow’s good, never fear."

It seemed Jones's chest swelled as he stood there. Did he think he was a superhero? The President? He baffled Arthur, truly.

"I can have my assistant call your office first thing tomorrow to schedule," Arthur said. He tried to smile without overdoing it.

"Nah. Call my cell. Didn't I leave a card? I didn't, did I? Here's one." Jones pulled a slim wallet from a back pocket-- his pants were so tight, how had he fit that in there?-- and plucked a card from it. He placed it on the edge of the table near Arthur's wine glass.

One of the waiters came up and tapped Mr. Jones on the shoulder. She spoke in a low voice that was nevertheless audible to those gathered at the table. "Pardon me, Al. Jose wants to know if you'd have a minute to talk?"

"Sure," Al said, and the waiter left. He shrugged at Portia and Arthur. "My chef."

"Ah. I'll see you tomorrow, then, Mr. Jones," Arthur said.

"Okay. Haha," Jones said, as if laughing at a private joke. "Now we're even, Arthur. Nice to meet you, Portia."

Then he left. Arthur looked at Portia, who was staring back at him. "I didn't even know we were in competition," he said lightly. Though now he said it he realized they'd had a battle of wills from the moment they'd met.

"Does he _own_ this place?" Portia said, looking around it as if with new eyes.

"Yes," Arthur said simply. He picked up his glass, inhaling the bouquet, finding it calming.

Portia shrugged and turned back to her own wine. "Well, I know you can't discuss the case. But I will tell you that he thinks you're cute."

"What?" Arthur spluttered-- literally. He grabbed his napkin and blotted at the table where he'd spit out half his mouthful of cabernet. 

"Totally he does. Because you are cute, Arthur, no matter what you think. But I know you can't pork your clients, either. Too bad."

"No," Arthur said with a sigh. He hoped it was a dismissive-sounding sigh. You could take a lover as a client, but you couldn't take a client as a lover. "And it doesn't matter, because ours is a professional relationship. Also, I'm sure you're mistaken."

"Not," Portia said. She glared at him. 

Arthur glared back. "And he was staring at your breasts."

Portia looked down into her own cleavage. "Everyone does that. They can't help it. Even you look at my breasts now and then."

Arthur mock-frowned. "That's preposterous."

"You just appreciate pretty things." Portia stuck out her tongue.

Arthur laughed and downed the rest of his wine. It was going straight to his head, because he felt giddy.


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur woke with a headache on Friday morning. He was up and half out of bed at the second alarm, not wishing to subject his sore skull to the blaring or the self-recrimination. He sat there for a few moments to be sure he wasn't going to be sick.

Hell, he'd somehow agreed to meet with Jones again today. And Bonnefoy as well. At least he'd had all day Thursday to work on the case and swap e-mails with Jones's CPA. Arthur felt that he could make some informed recommendations.

He'd even had his paralegal, Bella, work up a draft cross-petition. Jones would get what he was paying for.

Arthur scrambled to dress. He very deliberately did not wear the brown suit, but his serviceable blue one. He barely remembered to drag Al's card from the pocket of the trousers he'd worn the previous evening.

It was again very early when Arthur made it to the office. When Monaca came in he gave her the business card and had her contact everyone involved. Jones hadn’t specifically said for Arthur to call, and the personal challenge dictated that Arthur not do it. The real trick was going to be making sure the buried battle of wills didn’t interfere with Arthur’s ability to represent Jones to the extent of his abilities.

Monaca didn’t encounter any trouble, and scheduled a one-thirty meeting at Bonnefoy's office.

Arthur fielded calls most of the morning. Family law clients were especially needy, and Friday was a busy day as divorced parents argued over weekend arrangements with their ex-spouses. It was part of protecting their interests and a fallout Arthur had become used to. He'd learned early on when to say "I'm sorry, you can't refuse to let your husband pick up the children just because he has a new girlfriend; the courts will not care if you think she is a whore," and when to say "remind her -- civilly -- that if she doesn't let you have the dog that you can file for contempt. Yes, I'll e-mail her attorney." 

Just because his clients these days were often more financially successful did not mean that they had common sense or the knack of civility. Arthur had started his career in America with less wealthy clients and they were just like his current ones-- human, with the same failings. If anything, the more people paid him, the more they expected him to direct their lives.

Jones was looking to be no exception. Arthur would have to see that Jones's guilt or diffidence or whatever his problem was did not cost him.

Arthur packed up his files -- thank God for his hardworking staff -- and drove himself to Bonnefoy's office on the near northside. The old, brick building had an iron gate and a valet, for which Arthur was also thankful. He hated to search for parking on narrow streets.

Bonnefoy's receptionist was an insouciant sort with white, spiky hair who seemed to sport a different eye-color every time Arthur visited the office. Today his eyes were red, making him look rather vampirish. He fit in with the general artsy air of the neighborhood. He slouched his way to the conference room, pointing Arthur in and taking his coat, and then sauntered off, slinging Arthur’s coat over one shoulder and shoving his other hand in his jeans pocket. He mumbled something about coffee. 

All Bonnefoy's staff were wearing jeans. Arthur supposed it was Casual Friday, a tradition that had not yet worked its way to his office but one he was sure would be welcomed. It didn't seem to have hurt Bonnefoy's business. Arthur might run the idea past his law partner Lars Andersen sometime.

If the rest of Bonnefoy's office building was vintage, the conference room was modern and airy. It had been fitted with ceiling-high windows that faced east and offered a panoramic view. The sun had decided to make an appearance at last, and the snow on the surrounding rooftops sparkled. In the distance, Arthur could just make out a shining sliver of Lake Michigan.

"Hi again, Arthur," a voice said. It was Jones. He was already sitting at the conference room table.

Arthur stared for a moment. Jones was polishing his glasses and his unshielded gaze was intensely blue, bright like the glimpse of lake out the window. It was rather unexpectedly lovely. Jones replaced his glasses on his nose and became merely normally attractive once more. He stood and Arthur stirred himself to shake his hand.

"Hello, Mr. Jones. Long time no see," Arthur said, and instantly wanted to kick himself for the lame joke. 

"Ha ha! Way too long." Jones gestured at an empty seat next to him, but Arthur took a chair opposite. "So what did you think of my restaurant?"

"Er," Arthur said. "The wine was very good."

"That's what your friend said! Come on, you can tell me. I told you I like to know what people are thinking, right?"

Arthur was not the one to indulge him on that score. "From what I remember of the food, it was very good as well."

"I know, right?" Jones said, hearing what he wanted to hear. "That place is one of my favorites. But I know Mariel wants it."

He sounded wistful. Arthur gestured at his files on the table. "Well, since you owned the building before marriage and only renovated it after, you can make a case to keep it. And your accountant, Mr. Vash, feels very strongly that you should."

Jones shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe I'm becoming too imperialistic."

"That's ..." Arthur swallowed the _ridiculous_ he'd been about to add.

"That is not possible. Hello, _gen_ tlemen." F.H. Bonnefoy entered the conference room. In honor of his staff, perhaps, he was affecting a more casual mood and wore a trim suit sans tie, and had an unshaven chin. His longish blond hair was pulled back in a queue. 

Arthur had seen many of Bonnefoy's moods, from slicked-back and hard-edged to ... well, in his spare time he was a nudist, to be charitable. Arthur thought of him more as an exhibitionist. He'd attended a very surprising pool party once at Bonnefoy's house. 

He'd known Bonnefoy for years; in fact, they'd sat for the same bar exam. Since they practiced in different areas of law they'd more often worked together than on opposing sides, but that didn't mean they'd always gotten along.

"Hullo, Bonnefoy," Arthur stood to shake his hand. To his surprise, or perhaps not, Jones jumped up from his seat to pat Bonnefoy on the back.

"Frannie! Thanks for making time and space for us here."

"Of course, my friend." Bonnefoy held Jones by the shoulders and looked him up and down with the air of a proud papa while still managing to seem somewhat lascivious. Arthur tamped down a surge of annoyance. Or was that envy? Regardless, he knew very well how safe Bonnefoy was, how devoted to his wife.

Bonnefoy had taken the fast track to permanent resident status by marrying a Hawaiian woman and promptly whisking her away to cold and windy Chicago. She seemed to be thriving, however; Portia had decorated much of their home for her. 

Mister Red-Eyes brought coffee – and tea, thankfully – and shuffled out. Everyone sat once more. Arthur cleared his throat and opened his thick file. "Mr. Jones, our office has prepared a draft cross-petition for dissolution; our discussions today will help us populate your set of exhibits and apply to the court for the most advantageous division of property. The courts must find it equitable or the judge may order cash settlements. We should avoid that to be sure you retain personal control of your preferred properties. Bonnefoy, I believe I e-mailed you my recommendations this morning for your, ah, expert and more familiar review?"

"Yes, and you are as astute as always, Arthur." He turned to look at Jones. "Alfred, I knew I was putting your affairs into the best of hands. Though I sigh over the loss of your young love."

Arthur barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes. 

"Uh. Yeah," Jones said. He shifted. "Which reminds me. Arthur, you said you could advise me on contacting Mariel? I just want to know what her real beef with me is, but she won't take my calls."

"Ah." Arthur donned his metaphorical psychologist hat once more. "In these cases it is not uncommon for the spouse who first seeks a divorce to draw away. Especially if the relationship was formerly friendly, or at least seemed friendly. This is a stressful time for her as well, I am sure, and confrontation can be painful."

"Oh." Jones frowned a little.

Arthur leaned forward and looked into Jones's eyes. "I'm afraid that if the proceedings do not go smoothly as to agreements on division of property, you may hear from her and you may not like what she has to say."

Jones had leaned forward too, drawn by Arthur's words, and at this he leaned back and barked a short laugh. "Ha! So formal. What you're saying is, she'll call to bitch at me."

Arthur allowed a small shrug. "I don't know either of you personally--" He swallowed. "Yet. Or much about your relationship. But I suggest you may want to give her some time."

"Good advice," Bonnefoy said with a nod.

"Further," Arthur continued. "Since she works with you and for you, you can perhaps use another manager as a go-between for business matters. On anything related to the dissolution, I can be that for you. Along with her attorney Mr. Beilschmidt." 

"Thanks, Arthur." Jones beamed at him.

"Of course," Arthur said, feeling a twinge of guilt that he hadn't said this at their consultation. It was just that Jones had thrown him so off-kilter at that initial meeting -- or Arthur had let him. He’d just never suspected Jones might truthfully be so naive. He’d thought it perhaps affected, designed to put one's adversaries off-guard. And then he reminded himself that he was on Jones's side.

"Shall we get to business, then?" The suggestion came from Bonnefoy.

"Okay." Jones leaned forward and laced his fingers together atop the table. Arthur spared a brief glance for his nicely shaped hands. 

"Very well," Arthur said. He pulled out more papers, bound into three paper-clipped stacks. He laid the three stacks on the table as he spoke. 

"Here are my preliminary recommendations. These are the properties you owned wholly before marriage, and which I and your accountant Mr. Vash believe should remain in your control. This second stack consists of those properties she requests in her filing which I think you may not wish to contest. These include the properties she manages, except for--" he pulled one sheet from the stack. "--Americana, which you earlier indicated that you may be attached to. I'll add it to this third stack, which consists of properties to be discussed today. I depend upon you and F.H. to clarify or explain where you think these should go."

"That I can do." Jones picked up the second stack, the uncontested properties, and began to flip through them. "What are the final numbers? As in, what's considered an equitable division in this case? I can work backwards from that."

Simplistic, but direct. Arthur approved. "Well, she and her attorney have laid out a split of approximately fifty percent to you and fifty percent to your wife. I believe that was overly ambitious of them."

"As Ludwig often is," Bonnefoy said, meaning Mrs. Jones's attorney. "He is a tough one. But I think that given your comparative financial statuses before marriage, it should be more along the lines of seventy-thirty."

Jones raised his eyebrows. "Well, like I said, I don't want to be too tough on Mariel. She works hard and always has. How about we start with sixty-forty." 

"Whaaat?" Bonnefoy exclaimed.

"You are being very generous," Arthur pointed out.

"Yeah, well. Given the right capital and liquid holdings, I can always get more. I'm the one with the vision, after all." He shot Arthur an intent look. "If I really want something, you guys will know it. I stop at nothing to get it. Ah ha ha."

Well, Jones certainly had his share of confidence, of drive, peeking out like it had that first day Arthur had met him. Not unfounded, of course, based upon what Arthur had seen. Still, for a man who'd amassed such wealth to be so casual about where his money went ...

But he was the paying client, and so Bonnefoy and Arthur would work with his desires. It took them a couple of hours and a short conference call with Mr. Vash to divide the properties and decide upon their plan of action. Jones showed a very good head for his own real estate; he could rattle off many of their dates purchased and property taxes and quarterly earnings from memory. He had a portable tablet that he sometimes consulted for finer details. 

Arthur relaxed into the discussions, grateful for Bonnefoy's and Jones's acumen when things actually got down to business. The meeting was not the tag-team match of smug and over-familiarity he'd expected, given their initial minutes together. He only noticed a couple of times how Jones would stick things into his mouth when he was deep in thought, things like retractable pen ends or his own fingertips. Strange that Jones's fingernails were clean and round and not chewed as one might have expected. Arthur tried to notice not at all that Jones sometimes glanced his way when he'd thought Jones otherwise occupied.

In the end, they'd divided the properties to Jones's satisfaction, and Arthur and Bonnefoy split the duties for further fact-gathering; when they filed their cross-petition, it was very likely that Mrs. Jones would file a request for discovery on the few properties they contested.

Americana was one of them. The nightclub, Evolve, Jones had dismissed as a place he'd rather dance at than argue over. 

Arthur imagined Jones dancing. He almost hugged the image to himself, but too quickly he pictured himself dancing as well, and that was a horrible thought to drive all pleasant thoughts away. Arthur was not much of a nightclub person.

The meeting ended and everyone stood. As if on cue, Jones and Bonnefoy resumed their generalized flirting.

"So are you and Chelle still gonna invite me over, once I'm not married?" Jones wanted to know.

"Of course!" Bonnefoy said with a leer. "We adore seeing much of you."

Arthur did roll his eyes at the double-entendre. 

"I'm sorta not sure what to do with myself anymore." 

"We would be pleased to show you, my friend.”

Jones punched Bonnefoy lightly on the shoulder. "Ha ha! You rascal."

Arthur was packed up and couldn't listen to any more. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," he said. "I shall hopefully have something to e-mail you for a signature on Monday afternoon, Mr. Jones."

Jones knew how to eyeroll as well. "You gotta call me Al. And ring my cell and I'll stop by in person. If the weather's good I could just walk over. My office is only a couple blocks from yours, you know."

Arthur did know. So did Bonnefoy. He threw up his hands. "True! In fact, why don't you get a ride back to the office with Arthur? Rather than calling a car. He's a very safe driver, if he can keep his road rage under control."

Jones -- Al -- turned the full force of his megawatt grin on Arthur. "Could you? That'd be great."

"Of course," Arthur said, for what else could he say without sounding churlish? The things he did for his clients ... 

Bonnefoy saw them to their coats, then said _au revoir_. Arthur and Jones hunkered under the portico in the chilly afternoon and waited for the car to be brought around. 

"So have you been to Frannie's house?" Jones was asking. "They have a helluva pool."

"Yes," Arthur said. stiff at being left alone with Jones, challenge be damned, client status be damned. "He has an excellent cellar."

"A lot of French wines. So you like wine, I take it. Not too much, I hope?"

And that was a "helluva" impertinent question to ask. "No more than is socially acceptable, haha," Arthur said, trying to add the laugh and knowing he'd failed at sounding natural.

Jones either missed the awkwardness or ignored it. "Seems like you're very in control of things, Arthur. Though now I've discovered that you road rage, huh? That would be fun to see. I'm a very zen driver and passenger, never fear." He seemed to straighten, like he was donning his superhero pose again.

Arthur realized he'd become very aware of Jones's body. Body _language_ , that was. 

"And it seems that you like discovering things about people. Are you a student of character?" Arthur tried to smile to soften the possible snark of his question, and hoped he was more successful than he'd been with the laugh. 

"Yeah. When they have to know stuff about me, especially." 

As if he hadn’t revealed much of that TMI himself. The car arrived, and they climbed in. Arthur was thankful he'd had it cleaned recently. His car had used to smell of smoke and curry but at the moment all he could smell was Al's cologne. He pulled out into traffic and got moving before speaking again. "Mr.-- Al, I want you to know that I abide by a strict ethical code to keep my clients' confidences secure."

"I appreciate that. Oh, CDs." Al displayed a lack of ethics regarding other people's privacy by picking up the stack of compact discs Arthur kept stored in the dash compartment. Arthur drove a Lexus, but it was a few years old and he still had a CD player. Portia kept trying to get him to collect digital music, but he'd never gotten the knack of it.

Al flipped through the stack. "Well, your classical CDs say white male over thirty who makes at least fifty K a year. But really, your music collection isn't very gay, Arthur. Where's the ABBA?"

Arthur sighed. Some people's entire personality rested in their sexuality, straight or not. Arthur knew several gay men who judged everything on their own personal Gay Scale, and who could be quite snobbish when something didn't make the cut. He hadn't thought Al to be one of those.

"They're all right," he admitted. "Not something I'd listen to on my own."

"Oh my God," Al said, not a reply to Arthur's opinion on Scandinavian dance music. He'd picked out a disc with an old, scratched cover and was staring at Arthur with wide-eyed glee. "Rick Springfield? Dude, really?" He pulled out another. "You have a Rick Springfield _collection_." 

Arthur frowned. Why did people think his enjoyment of Rick Springfield's music was so funny? It was popular enough, or had at least been at one time. "Well, he has some very catchy songs--"

"And he's cute. I saw him in concert once." Jones started to sing, loudly and badly. "And she's watching him with those eyyyyyes. And she's lovin' him with that body. I just KNOW it. And he's holding her in his arms--"

"That's enough," Arthur said, half-smiling, half-scowling.

"I wish that I had JESSE'S GIRL!" At Arthur's side-eye, Al managed to look sheepish. "Sorry, had to finish that part at least."

Jones was the one being silly, and yet Arthur was the one who was warm from the chest up. He was blushing, of course, and hoped Jones attributed it to something other than the embarrassment Arthur felt at being treated so intimately by someone he (a) worked with, and (b) had to fight an attraction to.

"I understand," Arthur managed. He started to say something about the CDs versus digital music, or asking about Al's musical tastes, or something about having seen Rick Springfield in concert himself, several times; perhaps they’d attended the same concert? Or anything related and interesting. But couldn't manage it. Perhaps he did need to socialize more, if only to help him feel comfortable in such situations. "The traffic is not too snarled for a Friday afternoon, which is a welcome change. Which entrance is best for you?" 

And _that_ was certainly a phrase ripe for double entendre. Arthur cringed.

Al didn't bite. He looked away from Arthur and settled back in his seat, wearing a small, inscrutable smile. "Not too snarled. I like that. Coming at things backwards. Not too snarled." He was trying to copy Arthur's accent. "The entrance off Lake is the easiest to pull up to."

"Ah," Arthur said. Beside him, Al restacked the CDs neatly in their cubbyhole. "Thank you." 

"Thanks for the ride. I really appreciate it." Al was looking out the window. He was fingering his lips again. 

Arthur looked back at the road. He had to make a right here because it was a one-way south, and then get into the left lane to go one way east, and Jesus Christ, that person was trying to run him over. Couldn't someone change a fucking lane now and then without some cunt trying to beat him to it? "Watch it, bastard!" he shouted without thinking. 

As soon as he'd done it Arthur felt himself go from embarrassed pink to humiliated red. "Pardon me," he said.

"Heh," was Al's only reply. 

"I--" Arthur began, then swallowed. "I promised myself for a New Year's resolution that I would, as you say, become more zen whilst driving."

"And how is that working for you?" Al's voice was low and amused. 

"Not too badly, really. Why, were this but two months ago, I would have said something much worse."

"Ha!" Al laughed. He was looking at Arthur again. 

Arthur smiled back and felt the heat in his face and neck recede. It felt like a small victory, to make such an easy joke.

Shortly thereafter he reached Al's building and pulled up out front. Al unhooked his seatbelt and climbed out. Arthur fiddled with the temperature controls on the dash and watched Al's long limbs unfold with surreptitious glances. Once outside, Al leaned back down to look at him. 

"Thanks again. Maybe we can do lunch on Monday?"

Arthur hemmed and futzed some more on the dash. "I'll have to check my schedule, and see if we have the document finished in time."

"Oh. Okay. Well. Cheerio," Al said. He shut the car door. He turned to walk into his building, saluting the doorman as he passed. Arthur did not hardly glance at his ass at all.

***

Arthur went back to the office, though he might as well not have. He couldn't focus. He sat at his desk and remonstrated with himself to get working, to start the discovery, to have a conference with Bella. To consult with his partner Andersen. 

Instead he surfed the web and found himself Googling Al. It seemed the news of his impending divorce had broken, because there was a mention of it in both the business page and a local column of the Tribune online. There were no pictures, unfortunately.

Or fortunately, perhaps. Arthur's memory and imagination were vivid enough. He clicked and sighed. He had a terrible habit of developing these ... crushes, he supposed he could call them, on the most inappropriate people. There'd been that footballer in sixth form. Utterly straight, of course, despite the force of Arthur's ardor. That one had nearly gotten him a sound beating when he'd been found out. It transpired that the boy had been more embarrassed than anything, and willing to let the matter drop.

Then there'd been Lee, the owner of a tavern Arthur had liked to visit when he'd first moved to town and was finishing his preparation for the bar. Lee had run a karaoke and drag show and had zero interest in Arthur, who neither wore dresses and makeup nor sang. 

As for Al, well. For one, he was out of Arthur's league. Two, he was Arthur's fucking client, for Christ's sake. And third, he was bisexual. 

Arthur hated to be intolerant but he'd always been wary of dating bisexuals. At any time they could sod off and settle down with some girl in a societally approved relationship – not that some gay men didn’t do the same thing. People could complain all they wanted about the sanctity of marriage, never realizing that having solid, long-lasting same-sex relationships took real devotion and work just to exist under cultural pressure.

And it was just that, if Arthur dated, he rarely did it casually. If he made the effort, he wanted to be rewarded with security and commitment. He'd had very few relationships, mostly because he had little patience with chicanery and fooling around, and he did not give second chances. 

With his own cynical outlook on love, the best he could hope for was to meet a comfortable person who would share his interests and not demand too much from him emotionally. To be like Portia, except with occasional sex, perhaps.

Arthur gave up on himself. He left the office at four-thirty and told Monaca to leave early as well. He took the files with him. Perhaps his laptop had magically cleaned itself.

He briefly considered calling Portia and asking her to pick up some wine at the French market and come over. Or perhaps it would be better to go out, maybe get a drink with some of his other friends, like Tony or Christian. To be out there, seeing what the world had to offer that wasn't out of his league or off-limits.

Instead he did like he did most Fridays. He picked up curry and a Kingfisher and took them home to enjoy them alone in front of his television.

By ten he was tired and so he brushed his teeth and went to bed. And lay there, wide awake in the dark. Without distraction of noise or light he could see Al's blue eyes in the conference room. Feel the warmth of his hand.

Arthur was imaginative when he wanted to be. His cock grew hard. 

Well, a good wank would hurt nobody and might be beneficial. Release of tension and all that. Like Arthur needed an excuse.

He slid his hand over his chest, down to the waistband of his pajama bottoms, gliding his fingers over his belly to feel -- ah, that twitch, that ache of anticipation.

He could smell Alfred Jones's cologne. Was it something he recognized, mixed with the scent of clean, fit male? Something sunny, like the tuft of fair hair over Al's ear, the one he would brush at sometimes over the arm of his glasses.

Arthur's cock was hot in his own hand and thanked him for his firm grip and slow, beginning strokes. His belly pulsed with each drawn-out pull on his flesh.

He swiped his thumb under his foreskin and slicked it in his own pre-ejaculate, soft and wet like Al's lips, the way they nudged pen ends and the tips of his long, tanned fingers ...

Arthur worked up a hard rhythm almost before he knew it, hard like self-recrimination, painful and sweet like Al's white teeth, scraping gently along Arthur's cock as he held Arthur's hips in his strong hands and Arthur thrust into his mouth. 

Arthur's own harsh panting sounded loud in his darkened bedroom as he worked his cock and arched his hips off the bed and into his hand. 

_How is that working for you?_

_Not bad at all, thanks._

Arthur's testicles and belly tightened and he tired to slow his strokes, his thrusts, tried to hold himself on that acute edge of perfect sensation, there with Al on his knees, every position and entrance at once, tight and alive, very alive—

Arthur came, hard, tumbling over the edge of the canyon, stroking his cock the whole way down until it hurt, until he was drained. 

He lay and panted and waited for the thumping of his heart to slow. He wondered how many times he could wank like that over the coming weekend, and if it would drain him of Alfred Jones. He could certainly give it a try. In between bouts of work, of course.

First he'd need to take his laptop to a fast and discreet technician. Arthur rolled over onto his sticky stomach and slept.

***

Monday, Arthur was ready. It had only taken a couple of hours to clean his laptop -- it'd been infected with spyware, could have caught it anywhere, the nice girl at the computer doctor's had told him. So Arthur had been able to connect to Lexis-Nexis to do his research.

He had a document on CD for Bella to Shepardize on Monday morning.

"You really should use that thumb drive I gave you," she told him when he handed her the CD. Arthur just looked at her and she didn’t chide him further. His research was good and the doc was cleaned up by ten.

At ten-oh-five, Arthur sat at his desk. He squared the printed petition on his desk blotter. Then he took a few deep breaths and called Al's cell. After a couple of rings, Al answered. "Hello there, Law Office of Andersen and Kirkland," he said.

"Good morning. It's Arthur Kirkland."

"Arthur! You called me," Al said.

"Why, yes, I suppose I did," Arthur joked, hoping he didn't sound too ridiculous.

But Al laughed appreciatively. "So what's the news?"

"I have the petition for your final review and signature." Arthur took another deep breath. He didn't want to presume anything. "Shall I e-mail it over or would you prefer to come by?"

"We're doing lunch, remember?" Al said. "The sun's shining."

"So it is," Arthur said in a mock-surprised voice, glad nobody could see the silly grin on his face.

"Soooo -- can you meet me at the corner of State and Randolph at eleven-thirty? Lunch will be my treat."

"Ah--" Arthur wanted to point out that Al was already paying him a great deal, but then Al could afford to buy many lunches. Arthur knew this intimately, having been buried in the man's business for a week. He paused anyway, as if checking his schedule on something other than his memory. "Yes, that should be fine."

"See you then," Al said.

"Quite. Goodbye," Arthur said. Just as he was about to hang up he heard Al's voice, distant-sounding as if he'd pulled his phone away from his face, mumbling _God, I love that--_ And then it was cut off as Al disconnected the call.

Arthur's face warmed, still thankfully in the privacy of his own office. He would have given up a portion of his fee to know what Jones had been saying to himself. Likely it had nothing at all to do with Arthur and everything to do with a passing car or a girl's skirt or something. So Arthur told himself.

 _Awful, awful, awful,_ he also told himself. Obviously he'd not been successful in wanking out his unfortunate _thing_ for Alfred Jones. Well, it would happen eventually, since unrequited and inappropriate lust was too annoying to bear for long.

Arthur downed the last of the cold tea in the cup on his desk and went to see if his partner Lars Andersen was available. They usually had a short, general chat on Mondays, to catch up on new and continuing cases, coordinate space usage, and other whatnots.

Andersen was agog to hear how much Arthur's newest case had progressed. He was also impressed with the fee. Arthur let Andersen handle the financial aspects of running a law firm and was only too happy to do so, because it freed him for things he was better at, like handling personnel and practicing law.

Their staff and practices were mostly separate, if related. They'd met when they'd been on opposite sides of a rather nasty divorce case involving a local politician. Arthur had represented the wife in that matter, and Andersen the philandering husband. When the ashes had all settled, the two had been impressed with each other's work and ethics despite their clients' acrimony.

Andersen's partner at the time had been about to retire, and Arthur had been a solo practitioner, and so they'd agreed to join forces. Bella had come with Arthur and had been thrilled to finally do what she did best and was trained for, instead of doing all the odd jobs of Arthur's small practice.

"I may borrow Emil for discovery, if you don't mind," Arthur said, fixing a new cup of tea in the bar in Andersen's office. Emil Steilsson was their new associate, Andersen's son-in-law who'd recently passed the bar.

"Absolutely. It'll be good for him to get some billable hours instead of running courier duties to the court all day."

"It won't be for at least a week. Even Beilschmidt isn't that efficient," Arthur said.

"Hmm," Andersen said. He set his elbows on his desk and steepled his fingers, pointing them up like his gelled, silvery hair. He was a tall, slender, distinguished sort who looked like a politician himself. "He's in an awful hell-fired hurry. And those outrageous demands. Something's going on there."

Arthur sipped his tea and nodded. "On one side or the other. But it's not like they can hurry the courts along."

"No."

"I'm ... meeting with Mr. Jones for lunch today, to get his signature on the petition," Arthur said. And strangely, he didn't want to really discuss that too thoroughly, lest something be revealed. The more he tried to hide things, the more transparent it seemed he became to others. "So! I've been thinking. How would you feel about the staff having Casual Fridays? I thought about giving my people permission, but didn't want to create friction in the office."

Andersen's eyebrows shot sky-high, till it seemed all of him was pointing up. "That's not like you, Arthur. You must be in a very good mood. Hot date last weekend?"

Arthur's ears warmed. "No, not at all. Working like a dog. I guess it was something that's been rattling around up here for a while. Ha ha." 

Andersen threw up his hands in a "who knows" gesture. "Well, you're the personnel expert. I'm sure you can come up with an appropriate dress code. So they have Casual Fridays in the UK?"

"From what I’ve seen, it depends on the office," Arthur said, thankful the conversation seemed to have moved on.

They chatted briefly then went back to their respective work. Arthur called Lili into his office to discuss the relaxation of the dress code for Fridays and she lit up like a child on Christmas. She swore to keep everything as professional as possible, he would never notice a thing, and practically jogged from his office to tell the other staff. Lili, who wore suits and heels every day, was thrilled to death with the idea. 

Arthur began to wonder whether or not his _thing_ had infected his mood after all. He certainly didn't feel like moping. Did he usually? He couldn't remember.

**

The temperature outside was still near freezing despite the sunshine, and as Arthur walked up State Street he resisted the urge to hunch against the frigid breeze blowing in from the lake. He would be impossibly red and wind-chafed by the time he met Jones no matter what he did. 

The sounds of ever-present construction made the walk further less than pleasant, as machinery thumped into concrete and workers tried to holler at each other over the din. There had to be a more attractive way to shield pedestrians from dust and noise than with hastily constructed tunnels of white plastic nailed to bare wood, but the Chicago Department of Transportation had obviously not researched them.

Arthur emerged from one such tunnel to see Al, waiting for him on the corner. He hadn't yet spotted Arthur, and Arthur took the chance to watch him unseen. Al was wearing the same long, black wool coat he'd worn on Friday, and stood with his hands in his pockets, half-smiling and staring off at nothing Arthur could see. He swung his coat from side to side slightly, almost like a child might.

He turned and saw Arthur and his half-smile grew into his usual devastating grin. Devastating to Arthur, anyway. "Hello!" he called.

"Morning," Arthur said. He stretched out a gloved hand for Al to shake. Al's cheeks were as wind-pink as Arthur's must be. He glanced at the file tucked under Arthur's arm but didn't mention it. 

"Wind today's killer, isn't it? Let's get going."

"Lead on," Arthur said, open-palmed.

They walked. Al was even chattier than usual. "We're having American for lunch. Ha ha. Burgers, if that's okay." He didn't wait for a reply before continuing. "My assistant is sick today. Some head thing-chest thing. This time of year all that stuff seems to go around. I never really get it, though."

He looked at Arthur with his eyebrows raised, and Arthur wasn't sure what he was supposed to respond to. "Fortunate for you," he said after a moment. "I am chronically healthy as well."

It seemed to be the correct response. "Right? Knock on wood, haha, except there's only concrete here, though I guess it'll count. Getting out in the fresh air is the key. Everyone wants to hibernate and coop themselves up indoors all winter but not me."

Al pointed right as they neared a corner. Arthur had to hurry slightly to keep up with his quick strides. 

"In the mall," Al continued. "Right here on the bottom floor."

Arthur slid after Al into the revolving door and emerged in front of a ... Burger King? Surely not?

"This is it!" Al confirmed. "God, I love fast food. Sorry if it's not too high class, but the food is tasty and we've beat the lunch rush."

Arthur hid a half-exasperated, half-amused headshake. He wasn't paying and, well, this seemed very like Al. He shouldn't be surprised. "No, this is fine," he said. 

They ordered their meals -- Whoppers and fries, Arthur would have to do extra crunches or something tonight -- and chose a booth tucked away in the back where they could have some quiet. 

Al salted and coated his fries in ketchup while Arthur sorted through his file. He plucked out the dissolution cross-petition and laid it next to Al, on top of an overturned plastic tray and away from the ketchup.

Al paused in the act of taking a first bite out of his Whopper. He stared at the pleading and there was a flash of something in his eyes: Arthur might have called it fear. Then his expression returned to its more normal general brashness. "Should I read it?"

"I would advise it, because you’ll need to sign an affirmation that the document is true," Arthur told him. Arthur unfolded a napkin in his lap and ate a fry while Al seemed to try and decide whether or not he should touch the thing. Arthur ate another fry. Al eventually peeled back the cover page and scanned it, and the next, and the next. He took a bite of his Whopper and read some more. Arthur ate his meal -- it really wasn't that bad, if not what he'd expected -- and waited for questions and tried not to stare at Al as he ate in distraction, at the bob of his Adams' apple when he slurped his cola. 

Al didn't ask questions until he reached the end of the document. He'd gone through it so quickly there was no way he could have read it all in detail, but then they'd hashed most of those details out the previous Friday. 

"I sign here?" he asked, looking at the final page. 

"Yes," Arthur said. He quit goggling at the way Al's long eyelashes curled in profile, and pulled a pen out of his pocket and handed it over. Al clicked the pen, then raised it like he was going to rub his lips against the end of it, and if he did Arthur would lick the pen later, he'd swear it -- but instead Al signed, quickly. He turned the pages around for Arthur to see his loopy scrawl.

"So this is it, huh? The end?"

Arthur collected the document and replaced it in his folder to avoid the looming fast-food damage. "No, nothing's final until the judge signs off on the divorce decree. This is just the beginning of the process."

"Oh." Al gave back the unlicked pen. He took a bite of his burger and immediately sucked at his cola, like his food was too dry in his mouth. Arthur knew the feeling.

"I'll file it when I get back to the office."

"Okay." Al played with one of his fries. It looked like he was drawing in his splotches of ketchup. "I gotta have a meeting with my shareholders first thing tomorrow. They're kind of freaking about this whole thing."

Arthur would have bet Al was 'freaking' a bit as well. "It's fortunate you are a private corporation."

"Wish everything was private." Al looked around the restaurant, at all the people, seeming somewhat surprised that they were paying him no attention, and did not know nor care that his life was changing so drastically. "So what happens now?"

"We wait," Arthur said, looking at Al, trying to sound kind.

Al finally dropped his paintbrush-fry. He stared at the dregs of his burger. "Guess I'm just not used to the idea of joining the world of single people again."

Arthur snorted. "Well, welcome to it, I’m sorry to say."

Al looked up at him then, and his eyes narrowed in that sly expression he had. "Strange, Arthur. It seems like you're the type to be all settled down."

"One might think," Arthur said, now trying to sound dismissive.

Al looked away and then bundled his trash onto the plastic tray. "Well, you make me feel a little better about being out there."

Arthur stared. "What, by being single? Being alone?" Then Arthur flushed as he realized he was talking to Al almost like Al talked to him. Almost like he might talk to Portia. Al's presence had chipped away at Arthur's customary veneer of professionalism.

Al looked at Arthur out of the corner of his eye. "No. I guess I just know there are okay people out there."

Dear God, Arthur's nether regions flashed with a sudden heat at that look, and at the insinuation in the words. He sipped at the last of his iced tea and scrabbled to find anything to say that would change that subject. "It might take time. But you'll find another nice lady, I'm sure."

Al shrugged and watched his crumpled paper wrappings as they unfurled on the tray. "Well, I wouldn't say Mariel was ... it's just that. Well, she was kind of special."

"I'm sure she is," Arthur said, and the warm churn in his belly froze. His ribcage seemed to tighten in the sudden chill. 

Al's eyes widened as if Arthur had alarmed him with his response. "No. I mean... aw, never mind. I'm just being weird." 

Arthur was glad to know he wasn't the only one who thought so. Al was being incomprehensible to him, because surely he wasn't-- 

Jones continued. "I kind of tell you things I don't mean to tell you. Stuff just comes out."

"Ah," Arthur said. He begged for his inner legal psychologist to help him out. The best that man came up with was "Well, as your attorney, I've already promised you that I'll be discreet. And I hear all sorts of things in my line of work--"

Jones waved, cutting Arthur off, and leaned back in his seat. "Yeah, you did. Thanks. I guess you lawyers do this sort of stuff all the time." He had a slight frown on his face, the one he got whenever Arthur scored a point. Arthur hadn't wanted that one, but he'd won it anyway, just by being himself. 

"Yes," Arthur said, quietly.

Jones craned his neck to glance out into the mall, in the direction of the doors. "Looks like it's getting cloudy. I heard it's supposed to rain later or something. We oughta get going."

"Good idea," Arthur choked out. 

Arthur gathered up his files while Al -- Jones, dammit -- dumped their trash. They donned their coats and left. In the mall, they stopped in front of the revolving door to the outside.

Jones made a strange hand gesture, like he'd been about to reach out for Arthur but stopped. Arthur told himself that it was because of his nervousness -- Jones was plainly nervous -- and the fact that they didn't need to shake hands to say goodbye. 

"Well, call me if you hear anything," Jones said. He wasn't looking at Arthur, only in his general direction. Arthur missed Jones's smile and was glad of its absence at the same time.

"Please feel free to contact me if you have questions," Arthur said.

"Okay. Well, bye," Jones said. Arthur nodded and they parted. 

Arthur walked briskly back to the office. The day was indeed turning grey. Arthur told himself that it was not at all the case that Jones was attracted to him in any way, because for a few moments it had seemed like he’d been … flirting. It couldn't possibly be, however, and that was all there was to it. It was good that they had parted as generally and professionally as possible.

Inside, Arthur gave the documents to Bella for her to copy. She would give them to Emil to run over to the clerk of court for filing. Arthur sat at his desk. His phone rang. It was Monaca.

"Mr. Kirkland? Mr. Bonnefoy is calling."

Arthur sighed. "Thank you. Please put him through." There was a click. "Bonnefoy? I hope there aren't any changes, because the document is signed and headed for the clerk. Miss Martens will scan you a copy."

Bonnefoy had a pout in his voice. "Arthur! No, that's not it. I tried to face-time you on your cell this morning and again a little while ago. You didn't answer."

"Oh." Arthur felt for his neglected smartphone in his jacket pocket. He thumbed up the menu. There were three missed calls and a text from Portia: _Asshole canceled our blind date already and he hasn't even met me asshole says he has a job and cant get down here goddammit._ Poor Portia. "I had it turned off."

"Whatever shall we do with you?"

Arthur gritted his teeth. "How may I help you?"

"Ah-- well, it is a bit of a delicate matter, shall we say?" 

"F.H. ..."

"Yes, yes. Well, I wanted to chat with you about -- ah -- Alfred Jones."

Arthur's stupid heart tightened again. "What is it?"

"Hmm. Well, I just want you to know that he is a dear boy. He has a good heart."

"Aaaaand?" Arthur said. Bonnefoy was being even stranger than usual, and that could be pretty strange.

"I have known him for years and ..." Bonnefoy paused. It sounded like he swallowed. "I just want you to be cautious, however. He can be rather ... impetuous."

"You don't say?" Arthur said. He relaxed a little. 

"I should have told you this earlier," Bonnefoy said, as if completely missing the irony in Arthur's voice. "But I didn't realize a need until Friday."

"What's that supposed to mean."

Bonnefoy _aaaahed_ as if imparting a great secret. "Well, it seemed that there was maybe a ... shall we say, a sort of current between you two? He was sillier than usual. And you were a more lovely shade of pink than I've ever seen you, even when we had you over for our Fourth of July cookout--"

"Dear God," Arthur said, swiping a hand over his face. How humiliating, that even F.H. had noticed? He'd been trying so hard, too. Well, he was half-British. He could bluff more politely than anyone he knew in this country. "You ass. I don't know what you're talking about."

"You are an absolute dream, Arthur," Bonnefoy said, in the kind of voice with a silly grin attached to it. "But just know that our dear Al can be quite the bull-headed idiot when he wants something. I don't want you to be surprised, or hurt. Just prepared."

"I think I will be fine, _Frannie,_ " Arthur said, using that nickname for the first time. "Thank you for your concern."

"You have a lovely Monday as well, Arthur. Aufwiedersehen."

"Goodbye," Arthur said, and hung up. 

Very well. He had to do something about this. _Get out of town,_ his instinct told him, as it usually did when he needed an escape. 

He swiveled in his chair and Googled "Weekend Destinations," and clicked "I'm feeling lucky." And there it was, the answer, like from a kind fate: California Wine Country. He copied a couple of links and e-mailed them to Portia. Then he e-mailed his staff and told them he would be out on Friday but that they could start their Casual Days without him.


	3. Chapter 3

 

On Monday a week later, Arthur took four alarms to arise but was refreshed and primed to face the legal world once more. He'd had a lovely, relaxing weekend.

Neither he nor Portia had managed to get laid, but they'd both managed to get gigglingly drunk twice. Early on, Portia had felt the need, of course, to note that Arthur did a double-take at every tall, blond male they'd run across, and had done triple-takes if they'd been wearing glasses. Arthur had avenged his honor by pointing out that Portia glared at every Asian man they saw, and, it being California, there had been plenty of those.

So they'd consoled each other over loves that hadn't yet happened, and instead of men they'd both found several vintages they'd adored and had bought cases to be shipped home.

It had been sunny and mild and expensive and just what Arthur had needed. He carried a box with new crystal stemware into the office; two glasses for display and two as a gift for Andersen. He left wine-filled chocolate bottle bonbons in the breakroom for everyone else.

After he'd unloaded those he came back to his office to see Monaca inside, opening the blinds.

"Good morning, Mr. Kirkland," she said with a bright smile, and then "Oh my gosh! You're so tan."

"Am I?" Arthur craned his neck to see into the mirror behind his glass shelf; he hadn't noticed before, but he did have more color. Good. Perhaps it would cover his perpetual flush. "I suppose I am."

"Totally. I want to go somewhere sunny," she said as the blinds opened onto a grey day. "Maybe I can drag my girlfriends to Florida for a week."

"No, because I can't practice law without you," he teased.

Monaca whipped around to look at him. At his smile, she laughed. "Of course, Mr. Kirkland."

She returned to her desk. He heard her talk to someone just before she shut his door, saying "gosh, he's in such a good mood."

Arthur supposed he was. He had a busy week ahead but his Monday schedule was clear and just waiting for catch-up work. He had hardly thought about Alfred Jones all day Sunday, having been too happily exhausted to worry over something that might or might not have happened, or to let himself yearn for it. He powered up his computer.

He had a great many e-mails to go through; perhaps some day he should have Monaca or Bella program his phone to receive office e-mail and also show him how to access it. He was relieved that he hadn't had to deal with those over the weekend, but the technology-free honeymoon had to end sometime.

One e-mail was from Ludwig Beilschmidt, Mariel Jones's counsel. He was requesting a conference call with assembled counsel for the case. Arthur replied that two on Tuesday would suit him, and did Mr. Beilschmidt want talking points for a meeting agenda?

He chatted with Andersen and presented the stemware, and Lars was impressed and grateful. At ten-thirty Arthur went back to his desk and prepared to check his voice mail.

Before he could do so, his phone rang.

"Mr. Kirkland? Mr. Jones is calling," Monaca told him in a sing-song voice.

If Arthur's heart skipped, it was too brief to properly notice. "Put him through, please," he sighed.

There was the customary click. "Arthur? Oh, God," came Alfred Jones's voice, sounding breathless.

"Good morning. How can I--" Arthur began, then winced at himself, because he was already worried, and had already realized that he would show it. "Is something the matter?"

"Yes." Jones -- Al -- took an audibly deep breath. "Mariel is pregnant."

"Dear heavens," Arthur said, as his stomach plummeted and sat there.

"Totally. I--" Al's reply hung there, uncompleted.

Arthur took a deep breath of his own. This was not a situation he'd never encountered, legally. He knew what to do: verify the information, ask precise questions. "Did she tell you this herself?"

"Yeah. She called me this morning. She was crying."

Arthur was not surprised to hear that. He also suspected that she hadn't just found out; this explained a bit of her hurry to divorce. "Did she indicate that there were steps she wanted you to take?"

"No, just ... First time I've talked to her in weeks, and she hits me with this. I mean, of course I was nice to her, but ..." Arthur heard the sounds of traffic in the background of the call, and coupled with Al's breathlessness, it appeared he was walking down the street. "Are you free? Can I come to your office to find out what I need to-- to discuss this?"

Arthur closed his eyes. There was no question that it needed to be discussed. He didn't even bother pretending to check a schedule. "Yes. Are you-- when will you be available to meet?"

"God, right now. I'm just sort of -- I'm about five minutes from your office."

"Very well," Arthur said. He started brushing nonexistent dust from his desk. "I am here. And calm down. There are straightforward legal procedures to deal with this. I did tell you I've handled all sorts of issues, did I not?"

"Yeah, you did, haha," Al said. It seemed that he was more comforted than annoyed at Arthur's statement of this fact than he had been the previous week. "Okay. I won't go get drunk, then."

"A wise choice. I will see you soon," Arthur told him.

There was no bad outcome for Alfred Jones in this situation. Yet another difficulty with being a homosexual man; the inability to conceive one's own children. You still needed women for that, miracle creatures that they were, never mind that Arthur didn't want to sleep with them.

He'd kissed a girl once when he was a boy, just because he'd been told it was the thing to do. He hadn't hated it but he also hadn't seen what all the fuss was about.

A few minutes later, Monica buzzed him and Alfred Jones breezed in, his face nearly red from his brisk walk in the February wind. His tie, printed with tiny stars-and-stripes, was loosened and messy.

"Thanks for being he-- available," Al said as Arthur shook his cold hand. Had the idiot gone out without gloves? Whatever the case, the chill of his hand offset the vertigo Arthur experienced at being in his presence, touching him. A little.

"Of course. And you may have one glass of wine if you really need it," Arthur joked. Why, he felt almost big brotherly. It was odd, that this time Al had the stammer and Arthur was the one who could be direct and in control.

"Nah. At least not yet, depending on your -- whatever you have to say."

Arthur smiled and gestured Al into the chair. He noticed that Al's socks today were mismatched, one blue and one red. Or perhaps that had been on purpose; Al did seem to like being patriotic. "Indeed, you may change your mind, after you hear the questions I have for you."

"Personal question time again, huh? I'm ready for it this time, never fear." Al's chest-puffing looked out of place when he was sitting down.

"Very well. First, we have established that you have talked to her personally, and that your information is not hearsay. Now, I must ask: did she indicate that she thinks that you are the father?"

Al released his chest-filling breath. "I don't know. No," he said. "She said she's not sure. I think that's part of why she's so upset. She was with-- and was there someone else?"

Arthur waved him gently to silence. "Well, I will explain the legal questions you should have. You are still married to her, and thus you are the presumed father until shown otherwise. A judge will want to have the issue settled before the dissolution can proceed. Because even once you are not married to her, if you are the father, you will be responsible for support and will wish to be a part of the child's life. So the next question is: is it possible that you are the father?"

Arthur's no-nonsense statements seemed to have calmed Al down. His voice was much more composed as he answered. "Based on what she said, yes."

"And what did she say?"

"That her doctor thinks she is about four months' pregnant. That puts it..."

"Very near to the time of your separation."

Al took off his glasses, which had fogged up in the warm air of Arthur's office. He enfolded them in his tie and wiped at them, and Arthur melted a little in his chair at Al's unfocused but lovely gaze. "I just realized. She's known about this for a while, hasn't she?"

"I'm afraid so."

Al replaced his glasses. "Phewie. Well, now I know what was up with. Hmm. What do I do?"

Arthur laced his fingers together and leaned forward. He realized he was looking at Al's ankles and remembering their first meeting, hearing about Al's sexual escapades. What would Al's ankles look like without socks? He lifted his gaze to Al's face and surprised himself with his own equanimity by continuing with nary a blush. "We will want to request a court-ordered paternity test. She will probably want that as well, to clarify or strengthen her own position. Results are usually available within two or three days of sampling. There are new tests that can be performed with no risk to the pregnancy."

Al's eyes widened, likely as he considered that there had been tests that _were_ risky. "That's good."

Arthur gestured at his computer, out of habit. "I've had an e-mail from her attorney; I offered to meet with him tomorrow, but I can call him this morning to see if she is amenable to starting immediately. Would you like me to do that?"

"Yes."

"You will need to have your blood drawn by a disinterested and court-approved third party. Probably tomorrow at the latest, this afternoon by the earliest. Is that agreeable to you?"

"Needles! Maybe not agreeable, but I'll do it." Al shuddered a little. Then he uncrossed his legs and placed his feet flat on the floor. He looked straight at Arthur. "I gotta say, Arthur. You make me feel so much better about this. I mean, it's a huge thing. But I think with you on my side, I can handle it."

Arthur did feel a flush come on at that. He couldn't say he wasn't pleased to hear it, though he briefly wondered where Al's family and friends were; did he have no support system other than that provided by his lawyers? Even if his family and friends were unavailable, he had shareholders and business associates, not to mention legions of coworkers, employees, cooks ... Not for the first time, Arthur wondered about Al's private life, the parts of it he hadn't blurted out during legal conversations, anyway.

"I'm glad to be of assistance," Arthur said, eventually.

Al stood. He shook his hands at his sides, like the feeling had just returned to them. "Hey. You have a tan," he said, an eye-narrowed non-sequitur.

Arthur held out his hand and looked at it as if for the first time. "So I do. My efforts to avoid the sun this weekend appear to have been unsuccessful."

"Unsuccessful avoidance. Hah," Al said, again -- unconsciously?-- mimicking Arthur's accent. "Anyway, it looks good on you."

Lord, he made Arthur's insides all twisty and hot and left them begging for more. Arthur stood slowly, and blinked slowly, to keep his eyes or gestures from betraying a thing. "Thank you. I will e-mail you later with instructions. Shall I have Monaca call a cab for you?"

"Nah. I'll walk. Preemptively work off the booze I'm gonna have right after I get stuck with a needle. Whenever that happens." Jones was grinning, his smug flirting -- for that was what it indeed was, Arthur now knew -- unsuppressed by Arthur's measured responses. "Maybe I'll have to call you to hold my hand while it happens. The needle part, not the booze part. Or maybe both. Can I have your cell phone number, just in case?"

Arthur sighed. Al was rambling, and obviously unsettled and frightened. And he, Arthur, had withstood much sexual and romantic disappointment in his life; a little flirting wouldn't harm him in the long run, and seemed to make Al feel better. In a client-like way. Or even a brotherly way. Arthur remembered Bonnefoy's strange call, but shook that off. Bonnefoy was just nosy and Arthur could shoot Al down politely whenever it became necessary.

He dug his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and handed it over. "I confess I don't know my newest number. Use my phone to call yours; I've been told it's a perfectly rational method of exchanging numbers."

"God, you're funny," Al said. He took the phone and his long fingers went _slide-plink-plink-plink-plink-slide_. His pocket buzzed, and he handed back Arthur's phone with a boyish grin. "Got it."

"You will hear from me later, then," Arthur promised.

Though it had been established that it was not in the least necessary, Al stepped around the desk to shake Arthur's hand once more, giving it an extra, happy-feeling squeeze, and then he strode out. That time Arthur deliberately and unashamedly watched Al's ass as he did so.

Arthur pulled up Ludwig Beilschmidt's e-mail to get his phone number and dialed it. He was connected to him within a minute.

"Mr. Kirkland." Beilschmidt's voice was precise and civil.

"Good morning, Beilschmidt."

"How may I help you?"

 _Ass. Like he didn't know._ Arthur wouldn't beat around the bush, then. "My client Mr. Jones has informed me that your client, Mrs. Jones, is pregnant."

"Hmm," Beilschmidt said. "She told him, I see."

That explained her hurry to divorce, anyway. "Well, it's necessary information, given that they've begun dissolution proceedings."

"I've only recently learnt this myself. I had planned to communicate this information for her." Beilschmidt's words were clipped; he was annoyed.

"What, were you planning to drop this particular bomb during our conference call?" Arthur said. It was unprofessionally done, but then he and Beilschmidt had History. There was representing the interests of your client, and then there was overreaching for your clients and doing it rudely. Beilschmidt's modus operandi often fell into the latter category, in Arthur's opinion.

If possible, Bonnefoy liked Beilschmidt even less, for reasons Arthur had not yet discovered.

Beilschmidt did not deny the accusation. The man was unsupportable. "I have advised my client to undergo immediate testing to establish paternity. I trust you will do the same. I think we can handle this without a court order. And. Erm. Kirkland, I also requested the conference because your client has offered surprisingly generous settlements."

"Yes, I am aware." Arthur couldn't help the dryness of his tone.

"My client is inclined to accept them."

"As she should be."

"If the child she carries is not your client's, of course."

"Of course."

"Though she is disappointed about terminating her management of 636 Grant Entertainment, LLC."

If it was a threat, it was a weak one. "It would seem your client has other worries, and I believe an unshakeable case can be made for my client on that matter," Arthur said with some satisfaction.

"Hmm. Yes." Beilschmidt cleared his throat. "I have directed my client to the university medical center. I can e-mail you the laboratory information, and trust that your client will have his blood drawn as soon as possible."

"He can be ready today," Arthur said.

"Very well. We should know by the end of this week how to proceed. I will contact you."

"Or I you," Arthur pointed out. Maybe he would request that Al get him the results the second they came out, so he could have the jump on Beilschmidt twice in one week. It was petty, but there it was.

"Yes. Goodbye." Click.

Arthur waited for Beilschmidt's e-mail, then forwarded it to Al, adding that Al should call the medical center as soon as possible to schedule a blood draw.

Heavens, what a mess. Arthur buried himself in his work to take his mind off what he had no control over.

***

He got a call from Al when he was driving home that evening, listening to some music loudly and cathartically. Love is all right, tonight!, sang Rick. No, it isn’t, Arthur thought: love is a terrible mistake and his work reinforced that belief every day. When he saw his cell light up he turned down the music and hit the button for speakerphone. “Hello?”

"Hey. Its done, my blood’s drained," Al said. He sounded resigned. Arthur heard the tapping of fingers on a computer keyboard in the background. "God, Arthur. I'm scared to death. I mean, if it's not my kid I won't be mad but if it is I won't be upset, either, because, you know, my flesh and blood and all that and Mariel and I were ... well, once we were. We always said we didn't want any kids, but things changed so much the last year and I just don't know her anymore ..."

"Hmm," Arthur said, sympathetically if not encouragingly. He didn't want to examine his own feelings about Mariel Jones's pregnancy; it was only his affair as far as it was his client's. "If it helps, I have further good news." He told Al about the probable acceptance of the terms of their cross-petition.

"That's great. Thanks," Al said. "Sorry to ramble. Shit, I have so much work to do. I had to put several deals on hold when this all started. Frannie and I had to get all hardcore on this one guy, thought he could tell me when I was going to buy his store ... I want it but not if he's gonna be an asshole. I gotta like people to work with them, I think I told you that."

"You did. And if things resolve themselves uncomplicatedly, you will soon be able to get back to rebuilding your business. You're young, and there's plenty of time to take over the world," Arthur teased, surprised at himself for it. Alfred Jones brought out some personality traits Arthur hadn't known he'd possessed.

"You talk like my dad used to. I turn thirty in a few weeks, you know."

"Yes, I know. I've been buried up to my ears in your CV."

 _Tap tap tap_. "And I've seen yours. Is Medicare as awesome as they say?"

"Very funny," Arthur said. He pictured Al typing, leaning his head to the side, the phone caught between his chin and his shoulder. It was an intimate picture. What are you wearing, Arthur could have asked. Except he already knew: a navy-blue suit with red and blue socks and white shirt and a strip of skin just above a crooked tie... And hey, that person was driving the wrong way on a one-way street, and they were heading straight for him and no matter how he honked they just kept coming—Arthur swerved. “Motherfucker,” he cursed aloud.

“It wasn’t that bad a joke,” Al said. “Wait, you’re driving. Sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Arthur said, then cleared his throat. "The lab will have instructions on how to register online to be notified when results are available, and how to access them. You can contact me after you hear. Very soon, if you like."

"Will do. I'll plan a celebration for either eventuality. Thanks again, Arthur. Cheerio."

"Goodbye," Arthur said, sounding much too fond, and _plink_ ed the button to hang up. He paid very close attention to his driving.

***

The next few days were a blur for Arthur. He worked all day but refused to take a single file home, preferring to spend his evenings trying to unwind.

Al called his cell a few times, just to fret or flirt, it seemed. Arthur took pride in the fact that during these calls he maintained a friendly and equable demeanor. He kept his fantasies confined to his brain and his home.

Once Al called him in the evening, on Thursday, when Portia was over. She had stopped by unexpectedly herself, buzzing Arthur from downstairs just as he'd decided to have a good wank on his living room sofa. He'd managed to zip up his jeans and throw on a tee-shirt and hide his towel – the one to keep the sofa clean, of course -- and magazines just in time to open the door for her.

"God, sorry I didn’t call first, Arthur. You looked so relaxed," she moaned when she opened the door and saw him. "I just need to be around someone besides myself for a few minutes."

"You're always welcome, you know," he told her, and stood back to let her in. He sent up a silent thank God that his erection had waned as he'd cleaned in a panic, and that he could thus stand before her with equanimity.

She was dressed casually as well, as he rarely saw her, in a track suit, a ponytail and no makeup.

"I went to the gym. You never go anymore."

"I go somewhere else. Somewhere more private. That place you like is nothing but a meat market."

"Yeah, well, the meat there is more up your alley than mine." She sat at his antique desk. "Hello there, my pretty," she told it, sliding her fingers across its uncluttered surfaces.

Arthur crossed his arms and leaned against the couch. "If you'd like to make love to my Louis Quinze, I can leave the room. Allow you some privacy."

"I'm not ashamed of our love," Portia said, making a _mwah_ gesture at the desk. "So how are you ? I haven't heard from you in a couple of days."

Arthur took that opportunity to flop onto the couch. "Tired. No, I'm not trying to make you feel guilty for coming by. I've just had nonstop days and at night I can do little more than collapse. I haven't even been to the private gym since last Thursday." Speaking of, his trainer had called and Arthur hadn't answered ...

"Big new case?"

"No, the same old ones, catching up. I do have a couple of new clients, but their situations are routine. Support modification, that sort of thing. Would you like a glass of wine? I would."

Portia stood. "I'll get 'em. What do you have open?"

"The zin on the counter." Ah, a glass of wine and thou ... that was the way to relax.

Portia went the few steps into the kitchen, then called back. "Have you heard from Mister Americana?"

"Yes. More than is good for me."

"Aww. That much?"

"Wrinkle in the case. And I think ..." Arthur leaned back against the couch and laid his arm over his face, embarrassed to say it aloud, let alone to someone else. "I think he likes me."

He heard Portia's gasp. "Likes likes?"

"Yes. Like fancies."

"Told you so."

"You did," Arthur admitted.

"Rebounds are tough."

"Rebounds are excruciating."

There was the sound of a cork being re-pulled from a bottle. It was one of the best sounds in the world, as far as Arthur was concerned. Better than Rick Springfield, and he liked Rick Springfield a lot.

The next thing Arthur heard was the buzzing of his phone as it rang on vibrate. He scrabbled to grab it off the end table before it buzzed itself off and onto the floor.

It was -- speak of the devil. Arthur wondered if he should answer it. He realized that he was totally going to answer it.

"Hello?" He tried to make his voice sound distracted.

"Arthur? I'm sorry to call so late."

"No, no, I'm just fiddling about at home. What can I do for you?"

Portia yelled out from the kitchen again. "Arthur? Can I just bring the whole bottle?"

Arthur covered the mouthpiece on his phone, or at least what he thought was the mouthpiece. "Yes, bring it."

He heard Al chuckle. "Sounds like your friend from the restaurant. The cute one?"

Arthur sighed and shot Portia a significant look as she came back into the living room, carrying the bottle of zinfandel in one hand and two half-full glasses in the other. She handed one to Arthur.

"Yes, it's my friend Portia. Yes, the cute one."

Portia's eyes widened. She swung her hips in a rude gesture.

"I won't bug you for long. I was working late, don't have anything better to do, nobody to go home to, you know? I just ... tomorrow's the big day, I think. I'll know for sure. I'll call you right away. Just wanted you to know that."

"That's kind of you. I know it's tough either way," Arthur said.

"Yeah. I'll call you before I call my own brother, hah. I tried to talk to him tonight, but he didn't want to hear it." Arthur heard the sounds of tapping in the background again.

"Brother?" This was the first time Al had mentioned any of his family who were still alive.

"Yeah, my brother Matt. He's my fraternal twin. He lives in Canada on a maple-tree-farm-slash-weed commune or something. He says I stress him out."

Arthur could see that. He, however, found even Al's neuroses somewhat charming. He was so ... natural.

"Well, call him second, then," Arthur joked.

"Maybe I'll just e-mail him. Or give him a link to my website. Can you imagine that on my company website? A ticky box for yes or no ... God, I shouldn't update my website when I'm thinking about this stuff, should I?"

"You do that yourself?" Most businesses Arthur knew hired IT people or outside contractors to handle webby-computery things.

"Yeah. You know yet another one of my dark secrets, Arthur. I'm kind of a geek."

"How do you find time to do that and still beautify properties for the common good?"

"You've read my site! That's so sweet."

Arthur knew he must have a soppy expression, because Portia was making kissy-faces at him. He scowled and she only giggled.

Arthur sat up straight and cleared his throat. "Well, good luck with the web things. No ticky boxes."

"Not a single one, I promise. Good night, Arthur. Sweet dreams." Al's voice was like honey.

"Good night." Arthur wished he'd had the kiss that usually accompanied a phrase like that. He'd have no problem imagining it, however, especially after a couple glasses of wine. He was having no problem now. He clicked his phone and glared in the direction of his cock, willing it to stop being so interested when he had female company.

He looked at Portia. He wasn’t sure what was on his face that time, because she just raised her glass at him until he returned the gesture. Then they both took large gulps of wine, a waste of very good wine, really, but still satisfying.

***

The "big day" was Friday. Arthur got to see his staff in casual action. True to Lili's promise, there was nothing unprofessional about anyone's attire. Even Andersen and wore crisp denims with his suit jacket, and the mood of the office was lighter, somehow, even for a Friday.

Arthur regretted that he'd not gotten in the spirit as well and had worn a suit as always, but as long as he hid in his office he could avoid being a party pooper.

He had a clear schedule, but there were the usual Friday calls and their attendant impromptu client counseling sessions to keep him busy all morning. He ate lunch at his desk. It was Burger King; someone had fetched it and he could hardly be choosy when he didn't have to acquire his own food. He was chewing away at a Whopper when his cell rang. It was Al.

Arthur swallowed his bite of burger. He crossed his fingers, for what he knew not, and answered.

"Hello?"

"Arthur." He heard Al take a deep breath. "It's not mine. It's Felix. He's the father."

"Oh." Arthur released the breath he'd taken. "How do you feel about that?"

"You sound like a shrink, ha ha," Al said, his conversational laugh sounding shaky. "Um, to be truthful, I don't really know."

"Ah."

"I guess ... I hear she and Felix are a thing, now, so it's probably best that it's his."

Tidy, Arthur thought.

"I checked on the website and was trying to call you and she called me and was all, 'I'm so sorry' and I was all 'I'm so sorry, too, but congratulations' and ... and she said, well, I guess I'll see you in court. And I said, yeah."

Arthur waited for more but it seemed Al was done with his nattering. "So that's that," he said.

"I guess it is."

Arthur cleared his throat. "Can you please scan me a copy of the results? There will be a certificate, eventually, and you'll need to sign an affidavit relinquishing your parental claim. But that can wait."

"Oh. Okay. Today I just want to ... do something else. Go out. Maybe later. I have work to do first, 'cause shoot, I haven't been able to do a thing all day."

"Do what you need to."

"I guess I could celebrate the fact that the baby's not mine for, uh, a lack of complications."

Arthur smiled, since nobody could see him. "Now you sound like me."

"Ha ha! I totally do. Celebrate backwards. Hey, you could come out with me. So I don't sit around crying into my beer and ice cream."

"Er--" Arthur froze in panic.

"No, really. I need someone to hold my hand tonight. Figuratively. Please? Just for a couple of drinks. And maybe dancing. I know! Come with me to Evolve, since I'll be losing it soon."

Oh, lord. Arthur called upon all his training to help him. "Maybe it would be best if you don't have to see your attorney right now? You could spend time with your friends or family, those who can comfort you best."

Al's laugh sounded bitter. "Hah. My family is -- was-- Mariel. Except for Matt, and he's in Canada on the weed farm. And most of my friends here were our friends as a couple, you know? It would just be weird. My best buddy Ki -- my college roommate at UCLA -- is in Japan, and I just ... I'm telling you all of this, so now you have to come with me."

Arthur felt his chest tighten. It really was pathetic, that someone as rich and charming and gregarious as Al had to be so damned lonely that he'd latch on to someone like Arthur. Did he even realize that such fraternization could be seen as inappropriate? And if so, would he care? Arthur had a feeling he wouldn't.

The fact remained, however, that Arthur was a soft touch. "Perhaps ... for a glass of wine or two. I don't really dance--"

"You don't have to dance. My soon-to-be-ex-nightclub has a very nice bar. And I can promise you'll find a good wine."

Arthur sighed. "Very well."

"Great!" Al sounded actually thrilled, more fool he. Arthur could be a stick when he wished to be, and tonight he would have to wish it very hard. "I can be done by six. Wanna meet somewhere at, what, seven? It's early but then we can just have a drink or two before the crowds get there."

Arthur rubbed his forehead, regretting it already. "Seven is fine. At the bar is fine." _We're all fine here. How are you?_ That was from a movie, Arthur would swear it.

"Cool. My day is looking better already. Ciao," Al chirped.

"Goodbye."

Arthur clicked to end the call, and right away felt his stomach tighten to match his ribcage. He jittered about the rest of the day, and was thankful he didn't have to meet other clients or -- oh, lord, what was he going to wear? He checked the bar's website, which told him the dress code was "casual chic." What in the hell was casual chic? Shouldn't a gay man know what casual chic was?

He texted Portia. _Going out to club. Gay club. What is casual chic?_

 _YAY_ , Portia texted back. _better than jeans, less than suit. wear thsoe dark blue pants you have with the pipe down the side and a nice shirt. NOT a white shirt._

 _Thank you, you are a diamond,_ Arthur texted back. Oh, lord, were those pants clean? Had he taken them to the cleaners? He hadn't been to the gym in a week. Would they still fit him?

Arthur wasn't going to get another thing done, was he? He finally just left at four-fifteen.

 

***

 

He dithered at home, stressed himself out some more, tried to eat and couldn't, dusted and rearranged things on his shelves. Then he realized it was six-fifteen and that he had to get ready.

He dressed in the thankfully clean trousers, short boots, and a long-sleeved crewneck shirt he'd bought last time he'd shopped the boutiques up on Clark. It was dark green silk with gold thread in a tasteful, Asian-style pattern. It was the gayest piece of clothing he owned, if only because of the gold and the way it fit, sort of clingy.

He took a cab and arrived at the club at six-fifty-five. The club didn't open until seven; there was no line this early, only a tall and very well-muscled and square-jawed man in a sleeveless shirt guarding the door. The temperature had to be in the twenties -- Farenheit still felt strange sometimes, that "twenties" should be so cold -- but the man didn't seem to notice it. He barely looked at Arthur.

"Pardon me, I'm meeting a fr-- a ... someone here," Arthur told him. "Perhaps you've seen him?"

The man raised his left eyebrow.

Arthur was too classy to say _it's your boss, Mister Eyebrow_. "Tallish, blond, wears glasses -- his name is Alfred Jo--"

"Oh, okay," the doorman said, and cracked a smile. "Come on in, hon."

The man shooed Arthur in the door and directed him to sit on a blood-red velvet sofa in a nook just inside the door. Arthur could hear thumping music that started, stopped, changed, and started again, as a dee-jay somewhere warmed up. Arthur recognized the beat of the new song: it sounded like Depeche Mode. He'd seen them once in concert, years ago in London.

After a couple of minutes he heard Al's voice at the door. "Hey, Vin! Hi. Have you seen a blond guy, about yay tall-- oh, he's here? Great."

Al breezed in, yanking off his coat as he did so. His face was flushed and his teeth were white and he was wearing those form-fitting black trousers and Arthur's heart sank, because Al looked utterly scrumptious.

"Hi Arthur! Thanks so much, man, you just don't even know. Here, gimme your coat and I'll check 'em--"

"Hello, Al," Arthur managed. He slid his arms out of his long, wool coat and handed it over. Al's eyes widened a little.

"Hey! Nice shirt."

Arthur was infinitely grateful for the darkness of the hallway. "Oh, thank you-- It's--"

He cut himself off when Al actually grabbed his arm by the elbow and dragged him along to the coat check. "I half-thought you'd wear a suit, you know? Ha ha. I've never seen you in anything else."

“Normally I eat and sleep in them, but they were all at the cleaners, I’m afraid,” Arthur said. He was able to slide his elbow out of Al's warm fingers by pretending to reach for his wallet. He still tingled where Al had gripped him. "Here, let me get this."

Al waved him off. "I'll let you buy me a drink." He saw off their coats and led Arthur in another direction, this time without grabbing him. "We'll sit in the lounge. It'll be quieter. There's the dance floor, by the way."

Arthur peered around a corner into a cavernous room with warehouse-style ceilings and flashing colored lights. A long, shiny, steel-and-glass bar took up one wall of the room, and in the center was a hardwood dance floor with a polished wooden "fence" around it. There were more of those plush sofas scattered around the perimeter, dotted here and there with twisted-metal tables.

"Classic and modern. It's like space age meets suburban brick ranch," Arthur quipped, loudly to be heard over the music.

"You totally get it! What I was going for," Al beamed. "When I-- we-- designed this place."

"Are you a designer as well as a geek and entrepreneur?" Arthur joked.

"Nah. But I'm the vision man."

"So you've said."

Across the room in his-- no, her -- glass booth, a dee-jay with an afro hairdo and oversized headphones spun another track. It was more techno music, something Arthur thought he might know, given time to think about it.

"It's Eighties night," Al said. "It'll be packed in here later."

Eighties? Well, at least Arthur would recognize the music of his childhood. He followed Al around the corner into another room, the lounge. It was large as well, with the same design aesthetic, but quieter.

The bartender who greeted them was a tall, slender and very pretty young man. "Hi Al," he said in a sing-songy voice as they approached.

"Hi, Lance. This is my friend, Arthur. Get him a wine list, would ya?"

Arthur noticed that "friend," but decided that it was at least less awkward than "attorney." Lance gave him a book-bound list, and Arthur easily found a few things he could drink. He even found, by the glass, a sauvignon blanc from one of the wineries he and Portia had visited.

Arthur ordered and handed over his card for a tab. Lance looked at the card and then looked at Al, his eyes wide. Al laughed, sounding a little nervous.

"Gotta start paying sometime," he told Lance.

Lance shrugged but took Arthur's card with a small smile. "She's not coming in tonight."

"That's probably good."

"God, I wish you all weren't going through this."

"Me, too," Al said, with another nervous-looking grin. "Well, see you later."

Some people had trickled in behind them. Arthur thought about how he must appear to them, walking next to Al, dressed as he was. He looked like a man going out with his friend, maybe even a date. Perhaps he was, in a way. He was treading a thin line by doing so, given the way Al cranked his own knobs up to eleven, and the way he himself did ... something for Al, it was best not to know what.

He chose them a sofa tucked away in a darkened corner, more from wishing for quiet than for privacy. Arthur made sure there was a decent space of couch between them; that one touch had already set his insides to boiling. He sipped his wine and tried not to notice the way Al's shirt, another clingy button-down, hugged his torso as he sat. His stomach looked soft and enticing.

"I had to hold a management meeting this week," Al said. He sighed.

"Best to have gotten it over with," Arthur said. The cold wine was smooth and warmed him even further. Odd and wonderful, how wine did that.

"Yeah. I always wanted to own a gay dance club. Thought I'd have it in Southern California or something, of course, but I met Mariel and moved out here. The weather stinks but I kind of like it here anyway. It's a big city but people are pretty nice. More real than they are out in L.A."

Arthur nodded. He'd read how Al had done his MBA at Northwestern. "The weather in California is very nice, however. Very constant. In some places, anyway. I was there recently."

"Yeah?"

"In fact, I visited this winery." Arthur held up his glass. Al picked his up and they clinked them together.

"Cheers," Al said, and drank. Arthur couldn't help it; he was only human. He watched Al's mouth on his glass, the way his lips left marks in the condensation. "So why did you come here? To Chicago?"

Arthur took another sip. "I ... wanted to escape the bad weather of England. Funny, how that worked out."

Al grinned at him. He seemed to be watching Arthur's lips. Those lips tingled and Arthur took another sip of wine.

"My father was American, an Army soldier stationed in the UK," Arthur continued, wanting to chatter just keep the awkwardness of sexual tension at bay. "He grew up in southern Illinois. I came here after law college to study the American legal system, and just sort of stayed."

Al brightened. "Hey, my dad was a soldier, too! A colonel."

"My mother was -- is -- a doctor. She is still in the UK," Arthur continued.

"Arthur? Oh, my God, is that you?"

Arthur turned at the familiar voice. Oh, hell, it was Tony, his friend; vivacious, loud Tony. Christian was with him. Tony was dark and tanned as Christian was pale and Nordic. They always made a striking pair.

Arthur had dated Christian off and on, but they'd never really been a match in interests. The sex had been okay, but not magic. Not that Arthur required magic. He just ... sometimes he wondered if he should have settled for Christian, or someone like him.

Arthur downed the rest of his wine. "Hello," he said in a choked voice.

"Aren't you sly? I can't believe you came out to a dance club," Tony said. Nearly shouted.

"Yes, I kn--" Arthur began.

"Hi Arthur. Who's your da-- friend?" Christian added.

Al's eyebrows migrated upwards up as he looked back and forth among the three of them. Arthur swallowed the alcoholic aftersigh of his wine.

"Tony, Christian, this is Alfred. Alfred, Tony and Christian," Arthur said, gesturing at each of them in turn. He coughed. Lance magically appeared with two more glasses of wine, and looked at the new arrivals.

"Not right now, thanks, we're going to dance," Tony told him. He waved at Al and looked again at Arthur. "So how do you two know each other?"

God, Arthur had nosy friends, didn't he? "I know him from work," Arthur said, starting on his second glass.

"Yeah. We met through law," Al said. He looked somewhat gleeful at Arthur's discomfort.

"Because you never go out," Christian added, patting Arthur on the shoulder. He was looking at Al with somewhat narrowed eyes; for the life of him Arthur could not fathom what that look was, because Christian had never seemed the jealous type. Unlike Tony, who could have jealous rages to shame a Spaniard, Christian was quiet and intense, and had always seemed diffident where Arthur was concerned. And there was part of why Arthur and Christian hadn't worked out: Arthur had to admit to himself that he did need some sort of admiration from a partner, to feel wanted. He sometimes did not care enough for himself, and didn't need a lover who was too much like him.

"My situation was truly dire, or I'm sure I'dve never dragged Arthur out with me," Al told Christian, grinning steadily.

"Dancing will help that. Just be sure to drag Arthur to the dance floor with you, too," Tony said. He poked Christian in the upper arm. "Nice to meet you. See you boys later."

They walked off. Christian shot another strange and sly look back at them. Al waved, still smiling.

"Your friends seem nice," Al said.

"They are," Arthur said, and did not say, _usually_. He did notice that this 'opening up and conversing' business was becoming surprisingly easy around Al. "They despair of me, for I rarely go out, except for food or work. I leave the city when I want to relax, it seems."

"I want to travel someday," Al said, draining his first glass of wine and taking a starting sip of his second. "We always said -- well, I guess it doesn't matter now."

"It can hardly not matter," Arthur said with a sigh that he tried to keep hidden. He felt hot and chilled at the same time; hot where he was only inches away from Al's thighs, Al's shoulder, cold in his chest where he realized that this coming out tonight had been a mistake. He wasn't being a stick. And Al was still married. Al was his client. Al was still married.

"I know. But I want to have fun. Oh, god, I love this song," Al said, wiggling in his seat to the opening strains of ... Blue Monday, Arthur believed it was called.

He looked resolutely away from Al's hips. By repeating the "married" and "client" bits like a mantra in his brain, he managed to have a general, good-natured sort of conversation with Al about law, about travel. They went through yet another glass of wine, and Arthur relaxed enough to talk about souvenirs, and how he'd never thought he'd get into family law, because he'd trained in business and transactions. That was something Arthur admitted to few people.

At some point Al had sort of sprawled back into his corner of the sofa and lounged, his left leg bent flat upon the cushion so that Arthur had a view of his sock-clad ankle -- plain black tonight -- as well as the rest of him, including how snugly his trousers pulled against his legs.

"Do you regret it?" Al was asking, meaning the family law conversation. "It's probably less money than business law, and you have to deal with people like me, who are freaking out because of ... well, like Frannie says, lost love."

Arthur shook his head and looked at his wine. "No, not really. I get to help actual people, rather than just entities, corporations." Lord, the wine had loosened his tongue, hadn't it? "Not that I'm discounting those, but--"

"Nah, I get what you're saying. We really need the help more."

"I do some immigration work on the side," Arthur admitted. He usually did those cases pro bono, too. “Those are the people who need real help.”

"That's really awesome of you, Arthur." Al waved his nearly empty wine glass at him, sloshing wine up the sides. "I meant what I said, about you coming out with me. I do think you are a good friend. That first moment I met you I just started saying stuff, private stuff. I guess I just felt comfortable. You're a hard nut to crack, though."

"Do you wish to crack me?" Arthur asked. It was blatant double-entendre, and Arthur was relaxed enough that he barely felt shame at having let that one slip.

Al's eyes widened and his mouth opened, and he held that expression for a second or two, then he shook his head. "Nah, nothing so violent."

"I'm glad to hear it."

A waiter brought more wine, along with some apple slices and water crackers -- Lance was busy at the bar, and Arthur realized the lounge had gotten more crowded. He looked at his watch and hell, how had it turned eight-thirty already? He started to say _no, I shouldn't_ , but then he remembered that it was Friday, he'd taken a cab, and he was rather enjoying himself.

They were playing music he knew and liked, and the view around the lounge was not unpleasant. The people were attractive, not even counting Al, who for Arthur was in a class all his own. He took the glass of wine with thanks.

He bit into a piece of crisp apple and watched Al as he drained the rest of the wine in his glass, watched his throat, and wondered why Al did it for him. There were certainly more conventionally attractive people here, and the waiters were very muscled and wore very little ...

Al was talking. "'S just that I knew you'd understand. That note from Mariel, God."

"That led to an interesting conversation," Arthur said. Hell, his tongue had probably been loosened too much.

"Ha ha! I'll bet," Al said, seeming tickled. Then his smile drained away and he looked around the bar, as if bemused. "Now I understandwhy Felix. She was all, oh, it'll spice up our love life and you might like it! Like she was bored with me in bed or something. And she was ticked after, like it wasn't what she'd expected, like I'd done something wrong. I thought she'd enjoy the show ..."

"I can imagine problems, if everyone involved is not on the same page," Arthur said, having sought for something general to say, feeling the warmth of the wine in his belly creeping lower. The mental images his creatively visual brain conjured made his toes curl.

"We weren’t even reading the same book, I guess. It turns out she has a ... she's still my wife and she's having a thing. I haven't had a thing. I mean, I look, we always look, but."

Arthur felt a dire need to say something attorney-ish, to bring the conversation back into a realm where he felt comfortable and not, well, melting. "If you wish for a lack of complication, then it's best that you don't. Not until the stress of the divorce process has passed."

"Sure," Al said. He set down his wine glass and uncurled from the couch to stand, a mite unsteadily. "Hey, I'll be right back."

He ambled off, his limbs relaxed and quite nice to watch. Arthur sipped his wine and tried to decide if he needed to use the men's room. Not yet. He took the opportunity to look around again, at the people, his people, he should feel. People in their element, free to show affection to whomever they wished. And oh, my, that couple over there were being quite affectionate indeed. They were sprawled onto one of the nearby sofas making out, and it couldn't even be quarter till nine, yet. Tainted Love was playing in the background.

"PDA, boys," a voice said, loudly. It was Tony, and he and Christian and another man, one Arthur didn't know, had made their way over to his couch-corner. They were all watching the show with amusement.

"The young ones just can't hold their liquor," Christian observed. He looked at Arthur. "Where's your friend?"

"I don't know. Off, somewhere," Arthur said, waving his hand in the general direction Al had gone. His hand, nay his entire arm, felt pleasantly buzzy and flowy. He waved it again for good measure and pleasure. He glanced at the newcomer, a handsome Indian man. Arthur said hello. The man waved.

"Maybe he's on the dance floor," Tony said. "It's fun, but getting a little crowded. You should try it anyway. You need to relax more, Arthur."

Arthur scowled. "A great many people seem to have ideas about what I should do. Would my friends like me better if I was different?" he said. Al had never told him what to do. Nice thing about being the attorney in the relationship, that.

Christian merely widened his eyes but Tony jaw-dropped at that. "Fuck, you're right. Sorry. It's just, your friends hate to see you down."

"I understand," Arthur said, taking a sip of his drink and settling down. The music was changing. Was that -- it couldn't be.

"Sounds like your boyfriend playing," Christian observed.

It was. It was--

Al reappeared behind Christian. "Hi guys," he said, and then squeezed through to hold his hand down to Arthur. "I asked Angel to play this one for you. Now you have to come with me with the dance floor."

And there Al was, like everyone else, trying to get Arthur up. "Oh, for heaven's sake. You can't bribe me with Rick Springfield," he said, and started to wave Al off, but Al grabbed his hand and pulled. He was strong. Arthur came up out of his seat, spilling wine. "Fuck," he said, wiping at his trousers.

"Oops," Al laughed. "Well, come on. You can just stand still on the dance floor if you want, but you gotta come see, at least."

Tony took Arthur's glass of wine and set it on the table. "Let's all go, just to represent for Arthur's boyfriend," he said.

Arthur really had no choice but to be dragged off, with Al gripping his hand like that. He didn't let go even when they reached the dance floor, which was as crowded as Tony has promised. It was a mess of color and light and shiny faces, and the music was loud enough that the beat was palpable, sound waves of bass and vocal thrumming throughout him.

Bop till you drop in the big city, keep on working day and night. Don't stop till you get what you want.

Arthur wasn't sure he'd ever heard this song in a dance club. Al dragged him through the mass of dancing bodies to the middle of the floor, and the others followed and started swaying around, laughing like idiots. Al released Arthur's hand but only to hang one arm over his shoulder, almost like they were slow-dancing.

He was perforce pressed very near in the crowd. Arthur's head swam a little with the wine and the music and Al's body. He tried to breathe but couldn't seem to catch a breath that wasn't close and sticky. The people around them surged and bumped into his stock-still form. He was being a stick at last, as he'd promised himself.

Al was smiling at him, and after a minute or so Arthur pushed off. "Pardon me. I -- I need to use the men's room," he mumbled. It wasn’t completely true, but he was desperate for air.

He wasn't sure he'd been heard above the music but perhaps Al was a lip-reader. "Okay, I'll go too," he said, looking not too disappointed that his bait hadn't worked, thankfully.

Arthur led them out of the crowd as Al had led them in. He looked for a restroom sign and saw it, around by the bar, and made for it.

The back hallway was nearly as crowded as the dance floor had been. The unfortunate thing about gay clubs was that the crowd skewed male and thus gentlemen often had to wait in queues, rather than the ladies.

The men in queue were making the best of it, many of them snuggling close in twos, laughing or kissing or both while they waited. Arthur faced forward, resolutely away from Al. He remembered why he hadn't been to clubs in a very long time.

Behind him, Al jiggled his shoulder. "I think there's another place, not far. Totally secret. Come with me."

He took Arthur's elbow -- he'd gotten so touchy -- and dragged him down the hall, past the amorous crowds, and then around a corner. A short walk led to a dead end, holding nothing but a locked electrical closet.

"Where is it?" Arthur asked.

Al laughed. "I dunno. I thought it was here. Guess I remembered the way wrong." Al stood there, looking at the locked door with a lightning symbol upon it. He made no move to go back, and Arthur pulled his arm away, but wasn't forceful enough to dislodge Al's fingers. Al just looked at where he held Arthur's arm for a moment, and then up at Arthur's face for another moment. He put his other hand on Arthur's shoulder and pushed him lightly against the wall.

Arthur's heart stopped for a half-second, and then started up again, thumping so hard in his ears that it nearly drowned out the music. He understood explicitly that Al was going to kiss him, and understood also that he was going to let it happen. He stared at Al's mouth as he leaned forward. Their lips touched, and yes, there was magic, buzzing through him like a spell that brought people to life.

The kiss started with closed mouths but almost before Arthur knew it he was sliding his tongue against Al's, licking the inside of his teeth, tasting the citrus and sweet of Cakebread Cellars sauvignon blanc. And sunshine and Al, his breaths short and harsh in Arthur's mouth. Arthur gripped the sides of Al's face and soothed him with kisses, with gentle thumbs against his temples.

Arthur was foolish and he didn't care, experiencing the feeling of something he'd long desired, and discovering it was just as wonderful as he'd imagined. Rather than satiating that desire, it only made him want it more. His pulse pounded independently of the thumping music. Their kissing had a rhythm as well, a desperate one, as if they shared the knowledge that this was fleeting and had to be experienced as fully as possible before it ended. Arthur sank back against the wall and experienced it, let the world center on the slick sensation of their joined mouths, their joined breaths, the knot of heat that sank into his belly.

Voices remembered echoed in Arthur's scrambled thoughts.

_I'll let you know when I really want something. He's impetuous._

Al was also divine in his nervous desperation. His fingers trembled where they held Arthur's shoulders. With wanting him, Arthur felt it. Al pressed his hips close and the knot sitting Arthur's his belly unfurled.

Al peeled his tongue off of Arthur's tonsils and pulled away a tiny bit, hovering, still breathing onto Arthur's lips, still close where Arthur held him. Arthur was holding him, he realized. He opened his eyes and saw Al's were still closed behind his fogging glasses, his eyelashes long against his shiny cheeks.

"You make me so goddamned hot, Arthur. Just listening to you talk gets me hard," Al whispered against his lips.

"Oh," Arthur might have said, and unnnh as Al pulled his hand from Arthur's shoulder and slid it down until the heel of his palm was pressing against Arthur's burgeoning erection.

Arthur's erection, for fuck's sake. He turned his head and took a breath, fresh cool air to further the chill of reality that was already seeping throughout the rest of him. "Stop."

"What?" Al said, still breathy. He pushed his hand into Arthur's crotch, which absolutely wanted to push back.

"Stop. No, we must stop," Arthur managed.

Al's eyes opened. "What? Why? Arthur--"

There were a great many reasons why. Because Arthur liked him too much. Because he was vulnerable. Both of them were. Because Al was still married. Because Al was his fucking client, for Christ's sake. "It's ... it's unethical for an attorney to become involved with one of his clients."

Al's laugh was sharp. "Hah. Now you bring this up?"

"Seemed like a bloody good time to," Arthur said.

"But I like you, Arthur. And I think you like me," Al said, punctuating that with a palm-nudge of Arthur's obvious interest. "We don't have to get married. We can just fuck, right?"

Arthur was far enough gone that he actually considered it for a second. "No," he said finally, in what he hoped was a firm voice. Then Al ruined it all by licking under Arthur's ear, making him gasp.

"At least let me suck you off. God, I want to."

Yes, please, said Arthur's cock, well able to imagine it even without Al's filthy words rumbling against his throat. "No, not even that," Arthur's lips said. He mustered strength to push Al away.

Al just smiled. "Well, stop being my attorney, then."

"What? It's not that easy." With a few inches of space between them, Arthur could think more clearly.

"Yeah, it is. Give my case to your partner. He does divorce stuff, right? We're almost done, anyway."

"Don't be foolish," Arthur said, blunt for once.

Al's eyes narrowed. "Here, I'll show you." He pulled out his phone -- where had he tucked that in those trousers?-- and did the _slide-plink-plink-plinkplink-tap-tap_ thing for a few moments.

"What on Earth are you--"

Al grunted and held his phone up. "See? I just texted Frannie. I told him you're not my attorney anymore. It's official."

"You what?" Well, stunned shock had the salutatory effect of fully snuffing Arthur's ardor and erection, which was for the best. But as for the rest of it? "Really? You idiot. You complete ass. You're going to jeopardize your legal situation for a quick fuck?"

Al put his hands on his hips and assumed a cocky pose. "I thought you liked me, Arthur."

"Arrrgh," Arthur actually said, finding no better sound to encapsulate his feelings in that moment. "I thought you respected me. Goodbye."

He darted past Al and stomped around the corner, back into the hallway, glaring at the happy couples as he passed, hearing their murmurs of "Gawd, what's his problem," behind him. He heard Al call his name a couple of times but he ignored it, too angry even to turn around and give Al a piece of his mind.

Well, I don't do quick fucks, he thought as he shoved his way through the crowds to the door. Especially with morons who thought with their cocks instead of their brains. So what if that was eighty-five percent of the male population?

And as he neared the door he realized it was March and hell, he had to get his coat first and he'd probably have to stand in line and put up with Al whining behind him -- fuck it. He'd get his coat later. He shoved past the doorman and the crowds waiting to get in the club, and made it to the curb just as a cab disgorged a load of passengers. Arthur shooed them out of the way and climbed in. The cabbie just eyed him over his shoulder.

Arthur crossed his arms against the cold and gave his address. He wanted a cigarette like he hadn’t in a long time. Halfway there he realized they were passing Portia's building and decided to stop there instead. There were times when he needed to be around someone who wasn't himself, as well.

When he dug out his wallet to pay the cabbie, he realized he'd left his credit card at the bar. Fuck it; he'd pick it up tomorrow and then cancel it. He paid cash.

Portia was surprised to see him, but at least she was home and alone and buzzed him up without fuss. She took one look at him in her doorway and said, "What's wrong?"

Arthur stomped in, still rubbing his upper arms in their thin silk. "I'm pissed."

Portia closed the door behind him and sighed. "In the British sense or the American one?"

"Both." Arthur glanced back and realized Portia was in her pajamas. "Oh, I'm sorry, I just barged right in--"

"Don't be stupid." Portia directed him to her sofa, and perhaps deciding that further alcohol would not help his situation, offered him a cold bottled water instead of wine. Arthur drank the water looked around her messy apartment for a minute or two, at the empty Chinese takeout container, at the TV, which was paused on whatever she'd been watching. Some of his equanimity returned.

He took a deep breath. "Alfred Jones and I have a mutual attraction that makes it impossible for me to continue as his attorney."

Portia raised her eyebrows and looked down at him. "What did you do?"

Arthur felt himself flush. "I kissed him. He kissed me. That is all."

"So how was it?"

Arthur sighed. "Fantastic."

"And?"

"I told him we couldn't continue and he dumped me as his attorney."

 _"_ Really?" Portia shrugged. "Well ... now you can go out with him, at least?"

Arthur frowned. "No, I'm not going to go out with him because he's a little shit who dumped me as his attorney."

Portia sat next to him. She looked him up and down. "You look really good tonight."

"Thank you."

"Oh, Arthur," Portia said. She rubbed his cold hands and leaned her head on his shoulder. He'd known she would understand.


	4. Chapter 4

On Saturday, Arthur woke with a pounding headache. He didn't get up to get water or analgesics, just laid there and let himself suffer it.

Eventually he felt enough like he wasn't going to be sick that he could arise. It was already after eleven. Arthur hadn't slept that late in years.

He called the bar and spoke to the early staff, who did indeed have his credit card. Apparently they came in to a stack of them every morning. What they couldn't find was a bill: his card had never been charged for the drinks. The bartender had likely just charged them to Al, who still owned the place, after all. Arthur let it go. He supposed the lack of financial debitry was some small justice for what he'd had to endure.

He found his phone in the front room. He'd put it on silent before bed and there were several messages waiting for him. There was one missed call from Alfred Jones, and one text that said only "sorry." Too late for that, Arthur thought. He'd resolved some time late last night to just let it go. Perhaps it would be a relief to no longer work on Alfred's case, given how much emotional turmoil he'd already endured on the man's behalf.

There were also two missed calls from F.H. Bonnefoy, and a text from him that consisted of "???" Arthur made tea before returning the call to Bonnefoy. 

F.H. answered with "Arthur. I warned you."

"You did," Arthur said. "And good morning."

"Bonjour. So ... are you remaining on the case?" 

"Of course not. You can find him another attorney. I'll withdraw first thing Monday," Arthur told him.

Arthur heard a sigh. "I ... I spoke to him briefly earlier," F.H. said. "He was as full of answers as you are. But he did indicate that if you did not wish to represent him, he would be amenable to your partner Andersen taking over his representation. It would be a good idea, if you are going to be stubborn. That way, we can keep the same staff, who are already familiar with the case--"

"If I'm being stubborn? You can bugger your stubborn, F.H."

"Ah, ah, ah, I deserved that. Though as I said, I did warn you--"

Arthur waved to cut off Bonnefoy's schauenfreude, even though Bonnefoy couldn't see him. "I'll call Lars directly, and see if he wishes to assume leadership in this case. No doubt he will." Lars would be glad not to lose the fee, for one thing. They could pay at least a couple members of their staff for a year on what Alfred was paying them.

"No doubt. Well, take care, Arthur. Call me if you want to ... talk."

Arthur rolled his eyes, again unseen. "Thank you. Goodbye."

"Sayonara."

Lars was surprised but willing, and Arthur organized everything all right and tight for a smooth transition. Come Monday, he prepared the transfer information for Bella to file. He cited no reason, and trusted the court would not ask him to explain. They usually didn't, when the client was in agreement. Or had been the one to switch his attorney, which Arthur had every right to claim.

Bella was surprised, and only stared at the thumb drive he handed her.

"I discovered a conflict of interest," Arthur explained. "Andersen will probably want you to work with his team to continue the case."

She side-eyed him. "We did the conflict cross-check. Twice."

"I am done. I want nothing more to do with it," Arthur told her, trying to make it sound final. "Prepare a certified notice to the other parties, please."

Bella seemed a little stung, and of course his emphatic answer only created more questions within the office. Arthur simply worked harder on his other cases and sailed above it all as much as he could. 

Andersen had been handed a high-profile case with most of the major work done, and so he didn't pry. He trusted Arthur that whatever had happened would not affect his own representation in the matter. Lars even held his initial meeting out of the office, sparing Arthur the need to see Alfred again.

It was appreciated; the mere thought of Alfred made Arthur's chest ache. It was just that ... what was most annoying to Arthur was the fact that Alfred hadn't even had a very good excuse. Arthur didn't have any misconceptions that his sexual skill was worth jeopardizing the successful dissolution of one's marriage. And if all he was worth to Alfred Jones was a quick fuck, then Arthur decided he was worth more to himself.

Now if Alfred had claimed to be in love with Arthur, then Arthur might have understood, and dealt with the matter differently. So he told himself. Unfortunately, or fortunately perhaps, he was not to be tested in that way. 

Still, within the next few weeks, the news had gotten around to his colleagues. Both he and Alfred had said their transfer was mutual and amicable, but nobody wanted to believe it. Many lawyers were gossips, even within the bounds of confidentiality. 

In this case Arthur thought the speculation stupider than ever. Attorneys withdrew from cases all the time. Still, this had been a very large case, and it became clear that Arthur's reputation stood to take a hit. Even some of his own clients, mostly the ones who were in the corporate or real estate businesses, had heard about it. The assumption seemed to be that Arthur couldn't handle the case, one or the other of them had been difficult to work with.

Well, Arthur supposed he could say that yes, Alfred Jones was difficult to work with. He had a habit of offering fellatio to his attorneys. After flirting with them until they were stupid with lust, of course.

As for not handling the case, that was the stupidest; it had turned out to be surprisingly easy once Mariel Jones's pregnancy had come to light. 

The only thing Arthur was going to get out of the whole situation was that kiss: he certainly hadn't forgotten that. He remembered it often, sometimes when he was in the shower of an evening, or later, in bed. Or both. Sometimes he thought about it during the day, when he was sitting at his desk and resolutely not even nuh-uh Google-searching Alfred Jones or trying to explain to Mr. Vash the CPA that no, he was not on the case any longer and that Mr. Vash should contact Lars Andersen, Esquire. Mr. Vash had apparently become attached to Arthur and Arthur's ideas about what was best for their ex-mutual client.

It was a Tuesday when Arthur fielded yet another such e-mail from Vash. Yes, he said, Mr. Jones was coming to the office at one-thirty to sign some papers. No, he was not seeing Arthur Kirkland, but Lars Andersen. Could Arthur forward this information? Thank you, sincerely, Arthur Kirkland, Esquire.

Arthur planned to be out by one-fifteen, running Very Important Errands elsewhere. Thus he was surprised when at one-ten he heard Alfred Jones's voice outside his office door.

"Is he in? Does he have a minute? Just a minute, I promise."

"Pardon me, I'll have to check. One moment, please."

Monaca's voice was cool and instead of buzzing Arthur, she came into his office and shut the door behind her. She wore a frown. Dear lady, she had been offended on Arthur's behalf and suspected funny business in the Jones camp.

"Mr. Kirkland? Mr. Jones is here and wants a minute," she said, in a voice so low it was nearly a whisper. "Do you want me to tell him you're on a conference call or something?"

Arthur felt his ribcage do that familiar squeezing-his-innards thing, and he took a deep breath to loosen it. "No, but thank you, Monaca. Tell him I have two minutes."

"Ooookay," she said. She went out and Alfred came in.

He walked in more slowly than usual, as if cautious. He was a little pale -- perhaps because of the particular shade of grey he wore -- but otherwise he looked as delectable as Arthur had remembered. Not Googled, of course. "Hi, Arthur," Alfred said.

Arthur didn't arise from his desk, nor did he invite Alfred to sit. "Hello. What can I do for you?"

Alfred hovered over Arthur's desk and looked him up and down, like trying to read him. "I dunno, Arthur. What can you do for me?"

 _Smartass._ Well, Arthur didn't have to pussyfoot around anymore, because Alfred was no longer a client. He crossed his arms. "As long as it doesn't involve legal advice or groping, I can tell you unequivocally that I'll consider it."

Alfred's eyes widened with some glee at that snark. He opened his mouth as if he might say something, then closed it. Then he cleared his throat. "Neither. I'm having a cocktail get-together on Saturday from five to seven. I wanted to invite you to come by."

Arthur stared at him. " _Re_ ally. Well, I'm afraid that I am--"

Alfred held up a hand to interrupt. "It's a business gathering. There's that Lake County Hospital charity event later at the Hyatt. I'm having a pre-get-together for some developers, some investors, people I've worked with, people I want to work with, that kind of thing. I thought ... I thought it might be good if we could act like everything's ... good. I could slide in some recommendations -- it might be nice for business. Yours. In case there were any problems caused by-- with what happened."

"Ah," Arthur said, and rocked back in his chair, giving himself a moment to think. It was a decent gesture, even from an idiot who couldn't even voice his own blame. Of course, it was likely that Alfred wanted to quash talk on his own behalf as well.

"Just two hours, and that's it. No pressure, just business," Alfred added.

Arthur decided that he could be selfish, too. Making positive contacts within an influential group of people could only be advantageous. And if he had nothing else, he had his law practice. Lars would encourage him to go. 

"Thank you. I will almost certainly consider it," he said.

"Great!" Alfred smiled, chasing all the hesitance from his expression. "I'll see you then."

Arthur nodded. "Perhaps," he said. "Goodbye."

Alfred turned away, then turned back to look at Arthur. He made a little salute and strode out with his usual long-legged gait.

***

Given his acceptance, Arthur half expected that Alfred would feel free to start calling or texting or e-mailing him again in the following days. He was surprised -- and irked, if truth be told -- when Alfred didn't try to contact him at all.

Seeing Alfred again had reignited all of the feelings Arthur had tried to suppress. He felt more keenly that yes, Alfred really had done him wrong. He'd sabotaged a mutually beneficial business relationship for fleeting physical pleasure.

And what had Arthur gotten? A lousy kiss and an invite for drinks. 

Okay, maybe the kiss hadn't been lousy. It certainly hadn't been satisfying, however. If Arthur was to have been dumped anyway, he should have just gone for the oral sex. It would have meant more to him than to Alfred, obviously.

 _We don't have to get married,_ Alfred had said. All that bollocks about being friends, being able to talk to Arthur, had been an excuse to get laid. Possibly to get back at his wife. Arthur didn't want to think about that.

On Saturday morning, Arthur decided for the eleventh time that he wasn't going. Lars wasn't attending, after all; he had a grandchild's birthday party or something to go to.

Arthur dithered for most of the day and it was already five when he decided -- for the twelfth time -- that yes, he'd go after all, and do what Portia had suggested, which was to be as snootily casual as possible, just to show how much he didn't care. He dressed hurriedly in denims and a suit jacket with no tie. He arrived at six.

Alfred's condo was, predictably, at the top of a very posh building. A doorman directed him to the elevator, where an operator took him up. A young man dressed in a tuxedo opened the door to Alfred's home.

"Come on in!" the young man cried in a drunken-sounding voice. Arthur entered to see the cocktail party in full swing.

The young man wasn't the only one in a tuxedo; it seemed most of the crowd was attending the charity ball later. Feeling suddenly silly and woefully underdressed, Arthur almost turned around to leave. Then he spotted Alfred, mixing drinks behind a small bar in a corner.

Alfred was not in a tuxedo. He was dressed casually as well, wearing blue denims and some silk shirt of a color Arthur didn't notice because he could only see how it set off Alfred's eyes against his hair and-- just the movement of his body beneath it, the ripple of his throat as he leaned in and laughed at something someone said. 

It hit Arthur along with the wave of body-heat in the room: he wanted Alfred so much he could hardly breathe. He didn't even know if he'd forgiven him yet, just knew that he wanted to kiss his lips and his temples and peel off his clothing and kiss everywhere beneath that as well, and to breathe his sunny scent and -- everything. Even if just once. All that remained was to make it happen.

Alfred spotted him. "Arthur! Hello. I'm glad you could make it. I--" He stopped speaking and stared at Arthur for a moment or two, wearing a puzzled expression. Perhaps he'd seen what was in Arthur's thoughts? Arthur was so hot inside that it was a wonder he didn't set Alfred aflame with a glance. Alfred laughed his nervous laugh, then continued. "Come on over and I'll introduce you?" 

"Hello, Alfred," Arthur said. He walked over and held out his hand. "I have unequivocally shown up."

"And I'm unequivocally glad," Alfred said, trying to copy Arthur's accent as he liked to do. He shook hands, looking into Arthur's eyes as if trying to gauge his reaction. After a moment he released Arthur's fingers and looked back at whomever he'd been talking with. "This is Arthur Kirkland, an excellent attorney I've worked with. Arthur, this is Toris Laurinaitis, with Baltic Cleaning. They do housekeeping for several of my properties and half the offices in the Loop."

"Nice to meet you," Arthur said, shaking hands with the man, who was about his own age. He had longish brown hair and a friendly smile. 

"Likewise. So what kind of law do you practice?" Laurinaitis asked with a slight Eastern European accent. He took a drink from Alfred.

"I specialize in family law matters," Arthur said. "Though I do some immigration."

"Really? I always need assistance with providing visas for my employees."

"I would imagine so," Arthur said, and they engaged in a shortish but pleasant conversation. He met a number of people as they came up to have their cocktails refreshed by Alfred, who was kept busy seeing to his own bar. Arthur was standing near-ish to Alfred for his own selfish reasons; while exchanging pleasantries and business cards he could listen to the breathiness in Alfred's voice as he spoke to them, could watch the sweat on his forehead and upper lip, and smell the drift of his cologne.

Arthur had only one martini. Alfred seemed to sip now and then at what looked like cola with its ice long melted. As it neared seven and the crowd began to thin, Alfred took a free moment to wipe down his bar and Arthur walked over. It was the first time it had been quiet enough for him to notice the music, some string arrangement: Boccherini, he thought.

"Should have hired a bartender," Alfred said. He glanced at Arthur out of the corner of his eye. "You didn't mingle around much, I noticed."

"I met several very nice people, thank you," Arthur said, sipping the dregs of his martini. "Everyone comes to the bar, after all."

"Oh. I thought maybe you just wanted to hang around me." 

"That, too," Arthur said in a neutral voice. He raised his eyebrows at Alfred's surprised look. Seemed Alfred hadn't expected Arthur to take his bait. 

Just then a couple in formal dress walked up to say goodbye to Alfred. He chatted with them in a restless-sounding voice, and when they left, he yelled out "Last call!" at everyone who remained. Then he gave his bar yet another wipe with his towel, and then he looked at Arthur again.

"So? What is it, Arthur?" 

"Are you going to the charity event?" Arthur asked.

"What? Oh, nah. They already have my pledge. And I don't have a date."

"Ah. What a shame," Arthur said. He finished his martini and set the glass on the bar. He felt ... contained. Calm. In control, somehow, now that he'd made a decision about what he wanted and what he was going to do to get it. Even the pulse of arousal in his belly had a measured, careful beat. 

Alfred crossed his arms. "Is there something else? Your eyebrows have been trying to say things to me all night, and I'm not sure if they're good or bad things."

"Let's find out, shall we?" Arthur quirked the eyebrows in question. "When we have a private moment."

Alfred's eyes widened. "Oh. Um." He turned back to address the room in general. "Hey, guys? My lawyer says it's after seven, and everyone has to leave. Ha ha."

"I'm not your lawyer anymore," Arthur reminded him.

"Oh yeah." Alfred swallowed as he seemed to realize the implications of that. "My former lawyer. Who is an awesome lawyer, by the way. Hey, Ed, see you later." 

He spent the next several minutes saying goodbye, thanking everyone for coming, and performing the usual duties of a host, while Arthur looked for the bathroom. He found it down a hall, after taking the opportunity to look around. Alfred's condo seemed Spartan, for him. The walls and carpet were a bland ecru, and there were very few decorations, only a couple of mixed-media wall sculptures, a few tables with vases, that sort of thing. It didn't look like Alfred lived there. It made Arthur sad, to see so little of him in his own home.

When he returned from the bathroom, the music had been turned off. Alfred was just shutting the door behind the last person. He glanced back and saw Arthur. "Oh, there you are. I almost thought you'd unequivo-- ah, whatever-- left."

"No. Our discussion has lingered undiscussed, after all." Arthur took a deep breath. He removed his jacket, and made to hang it on a wooden chair. "May I?"

"Sure."

Arthur hung his jacket. He pointed at a cream-colored sofa. "Why don't you sit down. Over there."

"Um. Okay." Alfred looked dubious, but he sat. He crossed his arms again. "So are things ... good?"

"Some things are very good," Arthur said. 

"What does that -- oh." He'd just figured it out, clued in by the way Arthur stepped quickly over and grasped his shoulders, and the way Arthur bent and kissed him, hard.

Again as Arthur's lips touched Alfred's, he felt that thrill that rocketed through his body, of magic, or chemistry, perhaps: taking his blood apart and rearranging it into something molten. But this time, they had time. Arthur gentled his mouth, tilted his head just so, took the leisure to slide his tongue along the inside of Alfred’s lips. They were sweet. Rum: he'd been drinking rum and cola. 

Some minutes later Arthur realized the crick in his neck when Alfred's fingers brushed his nape. Arthur pulled away with a nibble at Alfred’s lower lip.

“What is it?” Alfred’s eyes were closed, his voice a whisper.

“A small bit of business.” Arthur gently plucked of Alfred’s glasses and set them aside. Alfred opened his eyes and they crinkled with a smile. 

“Should I worry?”

“Perhaps,” Arthur said. He climbed onto the sofa and Alfred, straddling his thighs, sinking his knees into the cushions on either side. He pinched Alfred's cheeks like a child's, then caressed his lips with his thumbs. "You are a twit," he said, in a voice that was perhaps casual but not at all snooty.

"So they tell me," Alfred said.

"Is this the usual manner in which they tell it?"

"No, this is a new one. Tell me more," Alfred breathed against Arthur's thumbs.

"Gladly," Arthur said. Then he went back for more kisses, more minutes of spanless time.

Their breaths and breathing melded, from deep and slow to short and sharp as the kisses grew more intense. Arthur fulfilled his wish to kiss Alfred’s cheeks, his eyelids, his mouth. He licked below Alfred’s earlobe and there, he'd found a sensitive spot: he was pressed so close he could feel the shudders that radiated throughout Alfred’s body and through his hands where he grasped Arthur's hips. He indulged many things he'd imagined in the quiet of his bedroom, some innocent, like brushing his fingers through the soft hair above Alfred’s ears. Others, well -- the throb in his belly had grown raucous and insistent, and he was hard, harder than he'd been in a long time.

Forget eleven; Alfred cranked his knobs to thirteen, at least. Arthur wanted more, all of it. He wanted to conquer the world. He slid his mouth across Alfred's cheek to nibble at his earlobe again, a fine cheat.

“Alfred?” he whispered.

“Y—yeah?” came the stilted breath in his ear.

"I do like you." 

"Hah. And I promise I respect you."

"Hmm." He swirled his tongue in Alfred’s ear, a line of direct attack. “You said you wanted a quick fuck. How about a regular one, instead?”

“Uhhh,” Alfred moaned. His hands clenched on Arthur's ribs. "About time."

“You'll bottom for me, won't you?”

Alfred squeezed harder. “God, yes.”

Arthur caught the breath that had been trying to elude him. “Good lad,” he whispered.

He sat back on Alfred's thighs and began to unbutton Alfred's shirt with fingers that wibbled only slightly. Alfred's skin was lovely and warm and Arthur bent to kiss each square inch as it was exposed. 

"Have you before?" he asked Alfred's breastbone.

"Yeah ... it's been a long time. Uhh," Alfred moaned as Arthur slid his palm inside his shirt and discovered a tiny ring of metal through one of Alfred's nipples.

"What is this?" Arthur asked.

"Hah. Memento of my -- of a party I went to a long time ago." Alfred had leaned his head back on the sofa to allow Arthur access, good boy. 

"Silly thing." Arthur discovered that was a sensitive spot, too, as he took it in his mouth and clinked it gently between his tongue and teeth: Alfred's chest heaved with a gasp.

"Ah-- God, that feels good but not here--"

"Hmm?"

"This couch. It's ... I don't want it anymore. I'm sending it over. So I want to but-- not here."

Arthur unfolded himself and backed off the sofa. "Your bedroom, then?"

"My bedroom. Yeah." Alfred placed an odd emphasis on the "my." His blue gaze up at Arthur was unfocused.

Arthur felt very focused and impatient. But he could hardly heave Alfred over his shoulder and carry him off, so he pulled him up from the couch and then trailed him down the hallway. Alfred's bedroom was darker, less ascetic, his bed strewn with colorful patchwork quilts. There was a -- for heaven's sake, it was a Captain America poster, stuck crookedly to a closet door like it'd been put up quickly and without thought.

"An audience?" Arthur nodded at the poster.

"He's an okay guy. What, you don't have Rick Springfield posters all over your bedroom?"

"Not since I was thirteen, I fear." 

Alfred smiled down at him, looking almost shy. _Curse his height._ "I like it when you talk to me like a person and not a ... business entity."

"You mean a client? For that is what you were."

"But not anymore." 

"No, not anymore."

"Huh." Alfred shuffled his feet.

 _Curse more this awkward chatter_ : Arthur's insides constricted with some unrecognizable emotion. With wanting wanted to fuck Alfred more senseless than he already was, this silly man with more charisma than anyone had a right to possess. With many things, some more urgent than others. "I move that we table this discussion," he said.

"I second the movement," Alfred said.

Arthur took a step forward and they came together as if for the first and last time, a mess of lips and hot breath and hands digging under clothing to find each others' naked skin. At some point Arthur pulled off his shirt and shoved his hand down the back of Alfred's jeans to squeeze his bare ass; at another he shucked his jeans, remembering to dig out the little twin-pack of lubricant and condom he'd oh-so-hopefully moved there from his wallet when he'd visited the loo earlier. And bugger it if he wouldn't fuck him with his socks still on: he unrolled Alfred onto the bed like spreading an erotic scroll.

He kissed Alfred again, deep and hard, felt his cock pulsing against the soft skin at Alfred's hip. He had a vague impression of fingers running along his spine, counting him up and down. When he slid a slick finger between Alfred's ass-cheeks, circling the tight opening, Alfred arched against him with a gasp. 

Arthur brushed Alfred's hair from his sticky forehead, kissed the sweat-salty skin there.

"I'll be okay," Alfred breathed.

"I know," Arthur said. He lifted Alfred's thighs over his shoulders and sucked his cock, probing inside him with his slicked finger, pressing until-- ah, there -- until Alfred shuddered and clenched his fingers in Arthur's hair.

"God, Arthur, you're amazing," Alfred huffed. He was watching, his neck bent against the headboard, his cheeks at least as flushed as Arthur's had ever been. To speak of amazing. "I can't hardly bear to look at you. Wait-- ah, wait, I'm going to--"

Arthur sucked him off, relentless and merciless to Alfred's moans of protest, until Alfred came, crying out, his body clenching tightly around Arthur's finger. He was relaxed, lord, at last. Arthur drooled his mouthful of semen onto Alfred's belly and spread it onto his fingers, feeling desperate and messy, and the sight of his own fingers on Al's quivering stomach was painfully erotic.

"Over," he said, and when Alfred, still knackered from his orgasm, only wrinkled his forehead, Arthur spun his finger. "Roll over, m'dear."

Alfred grinned, lopsided, at him. "You're so sweet to me, Arthur," he said.

Still, he obediently flopped over onto his stomach and pushed to his knees, so Arthur was inclined to be agreeable. "Shut it, you," he said, pulling on the condom. _Ah-- ah--_ he took a deep breath to calm the racing of his heart and the acute throb in his cock, which was threatening at the lightest touch to end his adventure prematurely. He swiped his lubricant-and-semen-coated fingers between Alfred's rounded ass-cheeks, greasing him up, guiding himself inside.

"Nnnn," moaned Alfred. He was tensed, his head hanging nearly to the bed.

"You may as well breathe," Arthur instructed. "There..."

It had already taken far too long -- minutes? Hours? Weeks? Since he'd first met Alfred Jones, anyway -- but still he tried to be gentle at first. He swirled his hips, he swirled his fingers in the sweat rivulets on Alfred's spine, nudging forward until he was throbbing bollocks-deep in the tight grip of Alfred's body.

Then straight to business, all business, he was, and rocked his hips; he knew just the rhythm, had dreamed it many times. In and out and again and again, following the tight coil of yearning that pulsed deep in his belly. In and out again and again, Alfred's body like a sleek leather glove stroking Arthur's cock.

"Do it, do it, Arthur," Alfred breathed, and Arthur did it, fucked him, shaking and steady all at once, splaying his fingers across Alfred's soft stomach to hold him close.

The room smelled like Alfred, Alfred smelled like Alfred. Arthur's ears were filled with huffs of breath and the slap and squelch of skin and Alfred, never silent, sighed his name and _yes, yes_. The little sex fiend; he was getting hard again already. 

Arthur captured Alfred's erection against his palm, stroked it between his sticky-slick hand and the mess on Alfred's belly.

"Jesus," Alfred cried out. His hand slipped on the covers and he fell face-first into a pink gingham square of quilt. Arthur lost his rhythm and his next thrust missed, throwing him off-balance as well. "Sorry."

"I have a better idea, anyway. Over," Arthur said, with another finger-twirl, when Alfred looked at him.

Alfred laughed. "Flip me like a burger, would ya?"

"Nothing so unrefined. A crepe, perhaps," Arthur grinned.

"Crepes Al. I like it."

"I'll drink some Chianti later, if you have it."

"Huh? _Oof._ "

Arthur hooked Alfred's thighs over his shoulders again. They were sweat-slippery and lightly scratchy against his cheeks -- God, Arthur loved the hair on a man's thighs -- and he leaned forward, opening Alfred like a lotus. It was amazing, how deeply he could thrust in this position. And how much even better it was fucking Alfred when he could look at him, see the dumbstruck part of his lips, the glaze in his eyes. He'd missed much of this earlier, he'd been so intent on getting Alfred off.

Arthur was happy. He wanted Alfred to be happy. This wasn't a regular fuck, nor anything remotely like it.

He brushed sweat from Alfred's eyelids and caught his gaze, angled his hips so that Alfred would make more of those enchanting sharp noises in the back of his throat. Perhaps, Arthur thought, he could capture them, if he curled his fingers over Alfred's lips ...

"You feel -- ah!-- lovely," he said.

"Lovely," came Alfred's faux-accented reply.

"Lovely," Arthur breathed, hard. He'd quickened his thrusts almost without realizing it, as the thickness in his belly took on sharper and sharper edges, hastening him toward climax. He wanted to make it last, to make Alfred come again first so he could watch it and feel it and ... everything. 

Alfred locked his legs behind Arthur's back so Arthur crawled closer as he fucked him, close enough to lick the sweat from Alfred's chin. Through force of will he slowed to excruciating, shallow thrusts, just enough to rub the head of his cock relentlessly onto Alfred's prostate, and knew he was hitting it by the trembling of Alfred's body, his sharp, incoherent cries. 

"Come on, you," he huffed, stroking Alfred's cock, swallowing Alfred's thumb as it found its way to his mouth. 

"Yes, yes, that's too much -- it's-- ah, ah," Alfred cried. When he came again, he clenched so violently all over that his thighs nearly crushed Arthur's remaining breath out of him.

And yes, it was too much, the spasms of Alfred's body around him, the lake blue of Alfred's eyes beneath the flutter of his lashes: release burned its way out of Arthur with a hoarse cry and he tumbled over that edge, this time not alone.

Afterward they lay together quietly for a few minutes. It was strange, Arthur thought, that he should experience a real, live afterglow, for he'd always thought it a fanciful turn of phrase for a rather mundane event, the end of sex. But to his eyes Alfred did seem to glow, his skin sweaty and warm in the faint city- and moonlight diffusing through the curtains.

Arthur's own body hummed with contentment. He rubbed idly at the ring in Alfred's nipple, considering whether or not he might forgive Alfred after all. 

"Hannibal Lecter," came Alfred's slurred voice.

"Hmm?" 

"You were talking about crepes made of me and Chiantis and you meant like cannibals, like Silence of the Lambs."

Arthur smiled into Alfred's shoulder. "Indeed, that is what I referenced." He didn't say _you silly thing,_ yet satiation had nevertheless made him more honest than usual. "I am ashamed to say, I wish I had a cigarette."

Alfred shifted his arm in some unseen gesture. "I have some. In the bedside table. For emergencies."

"You do?" 

"Yeah, I'll get you one. They're really old, though."

Arthur's blood begged for the nicotine, but that was a bad thing. "No, I shouldn't. I have quit."

"Dude, your hair nearly stood on end when I mentioned it. Hey, I'll have one if you do. We have to go out on the balcony, though."

"Evil beguiler," Arthur said, feeling himself blush to be caught out so. It felt like exposing his soul, intimate even after the sex. 

That was one of his problems: thinking too much about things, holding himself up in the spotlight of his thoughts and examining his place in any situation. It served him well in law but Alfred's mercurial and yes, impetuous, manner of existence made it a confusing endeavor. Arthur's life around Alfred Jones changed from moment to moment, forcing him to adapt constantly. It was exhilarating and frightening. 

Still, the temptation of nicotine was too much. Arthur rolled off Alfred and the bed and dragged a quilt with him. He discreetly disposed of the condom and turned around to see Alfred wrapped in a quilt as well. He was bent over one of the tables. Soon he stood, holding two cigarettes and a lighter between three of his fingers. 

Arthur followed him silently back into the front room, and thence to the balcony doors. The breeze when Alfred opened them was sharp and raw. Arthur huddled in his blanket, stiffened his spine, and followed Alfred out, glad he still wore his socks. The balcony was small and occupied by a bistro set and an ashtray. 

"The smoking section," Arthur noted. His fingers shook as he lit a cigarette first for himself and then for Alfred.

"Yeah. I need a sign or something." 

Arthur had hoped he'd hate the cigarette, after months without one. His first inhale was stale, and it tasted like ash, and it burned his throat. Unfortunately, it was quite heavenly despite all that. 

It was a clear night and the city around them was beautiful, lines of gold peppered with dots of red and green, the whole thing bisected by the nighttime lake's semicircle of deepest black. Also pleasing was the view of Alfred, bent over the railing and looking out, exhaling a long and slow trail of smoke. His feet, unlike Arthur's, were bare and he shuffled from foot to foot on the cold concrete.

It was a sight Arthur would blissfully watch on many a cold night. An existence he could become addicted to, with or without the cigarette. 

"I ... Hey. It's weird," Alfred said, barely more than a mumble.

"Hmm?" Arthur said, taking another ashy drag. 

Alfred looked at him. "Aww, nothing. Me. I'm weird. Had enough?"

"Yes." Now he could think straight, part of Arthur wanted Alfred to explain, not just his half-conversation, but many things. The other part of him was too relaxed.

They extinguished their half-smoked cigarettes in the ashtray and went back inside. Alfred pointed at the bar. "Wanna drink?"

"No, thank you," Arthur said. He gathered his quilt more tightly at his neck and must have shivered, for Alfred stepped closer and opened his quilt, sharing it around both of them like a cocoon. 

"Cold?"

Arthur raised his eyebrows. "No, why would you ask that?"

"You crack me up," Alfred said. He kissed Arthur first this time, with soft, smoky lips. Arthur kissed him back, lived in the moment, releasing his death-grip on the quilt to once again own all Alfred's naked, sticky skin with his fingers. The kisses were gentle and gently arousing: Arthur was too wiped from his earlier ferocious orgasm to get hard again just yet, but that only gave him time to enjoy making out for its own sake. He wanted to crack Alfred up, crack him open and hold him like that forever, and then weep at the sweetness of it all.

At some point both quilts dropped to the floor and Alfred shivered, either from the creeping chill in the room or from Arthur's fingers squeezing his ass. It was a nice one, not too skinny. But eventually the kiss had to end.

"Your face, Arthur," Alfred murmured as he pulled away.

Arthur's heart stopped, at the words, at the look in Alfred's eyes. Traitorous heart; it wanted to jump out of Arthur's chest and throw itself into Alfred's hands. "What about it?"

Alfred looked down for a moment or two. He gathered their quilts and when he stood, the blues of his eyes were ringed with red, likely from their earlier smoke. 

"Nothing," he said eventually. "I need a soda or something, though. Thirsty. You want one?"

Arthur took a deep breath and reclaimed his quilt from Alfred. _How about that bottle of gin at the bar, after all?_ "How about a water?"

"I can do that."

They huddled in their quilts at the kitchen table, Alfred with a can of Pepsi, Arthur with a bottle of water. They were silent for a bit; Arthur looked around the kitchen, looking for pieces of Alfred's life in it. Arthur could see himself there, with Alfred, doing ... things. Cooking scones in the afternoons. Sitting on the sofa together -- a different sofa, of course -- watching movies and eating curry. They were cozy thoughts. 

Meanwhile, Alfred stared at the table, setting his can of cola on it and picking it up again, drawing in the circle of condensation it left behind. He sniffed. "Place is a mess. I'll need to call housekeeping tomorrow and pay 'em overtime. I'm not used to keeping it up all by myself. Mar-- she was so picky about cleaning."

Arthur sipped his water to hide his jolt of at this reminder that Alfred was still married. To someone else. Living moment to moment meant forgetting some very important things. "It doesn't look too awfully bad. A little sticky in spots," Arthur said, lamely.

"That's nice of you to say," Alfred said with a weak smile, even though it hadn't been particularly nice. He sighed. "I don't know whether to congratulate myself or call myself an idiot."

Arthur's stomach sank. "What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing." Another sigh.

"No, I think you should tell me," Arthur said, enunciating.

Alfred wouldn't look at him. He sniffed again and something wet plopped onto the table in front of him and oh, lord -- was he--? "Well, I guess I have a Thing now. But I feel like I shouldn't. Like, what would she think?"

Arthur stood. He felt sick at the idea that he was a _Thing._. Or merely a Thing, at least, and not more. "Sorry to have troubled you."

Alfred glanced up at him, and his eyes were definitely red. "No, it's -- God, give me a break. It was hard enough to say that, without you misunderstanding." 

"What!?" Arthur said, perhaps over-loudly, but then a lot of things were bubbling to the surface. "I understood perfectly."

Alfred looked back down at the table and waved his hand in Arthur's general direction. "No, you didn't. Listen. I'm trying to be better at this, but I sort of suck." 

"Indeed, you--" Arthur started, then sighed heavily. "I think I will leave now," he said. He stomped off to retrieve his clothing. 

"I should probably be alone anyway," Alfred sniffed.

Arthur dressed in a hurry, feeling tight in the chest and around his eyes. Rebounds were the worst ever, they were bollocks, and so were bisexual little shits looking to even a score with their wives, they were everything bad and Arthur wished he'd never met Alfred Jones, because then he would have never have had to cross his living room, red-eyed and blithering and feeling like dirt. 

"Will you call me? Can I call you, at least? So we can talk when I'm not fucked in the head?" Alfred said. He was leaning against the wall in the entrance to the kitchen, looking not at Arthur but at his own bare feet on the carpet.

"No, and no," Arthur said with some astonishment, pausing in his escape. "I don't-- I dislike being used."

Alfred looked up at that. "Hey, you're the one who -- and it's not like you didn't get anything. And you just said you liked me, Arthur. You sure acted like it."

 _Like, liked, like._ "Only because you--" Arthur began, then cut himself off with a grunt, because he wasn't even sure which part of that he was replying to. The man wasn't even worth arguing with. _Yes, he was_ , said another part of Arthur, one he ignored. "Yes, it was a lovely fuck. Thank you," Arthur said, heading for the door as quickly as he could. 

"Great. Just great," Alfred was moaning as Arthur left.

Arthur sat in another taxicab after another tumultuous evening with Alfred Jones and crossed his arms and glared at the world passing by through the vehicle window. It was a world of stupid things that seemed wonderful but were just waiting to entrap one into misery.

It seemed his lust had gone on to infect other parts of him, such as his judgment. He'd given Alfred a second chance, not something he ever did, and there! It had only hurt him in the end. 

A lot of things made sense in retrospect. Arthur hadn't forgiven Alfred; he'd just fallen in love with him. And Alfred was still in love with his wife. 

 

***

This time Arthur couldn't -- and thus didn't -- even pretend that everything was fine, just fine here, thanks. He moped.

He hurt Portia's feelings when she called Sunday to wax poetic about her Korean carpenter, with whom she'd finally gone on a date. He was totally cute, she said, and he was goofy and smart and had a liberal arts degree from Northwestern but he made better money at contracting and it was love at first sight for both of them and she was seeing him again and so on and so on and Arthur mumbled "yes, how nice for you" and Portia went silent and asked what was wrong. "Nothing, why would you ask that," Arthur said, and Portia gave up, apparently disgusted with the nastiness of his tone.

He arose late for work for several days in a row. He glowered and caused his office staff to avoid him, which suited him fine.

He put on false smiles for his clients and listened to their problems. He didn't want to be in love with Alfred Jones, though he could think of no other reason for the turmoil in his head and heart. He was hurt and angry, and at the same time he wished it were not so and that he could see Alfred again and listen to his silly chatter and kiss him silent and then ... He'd already been imagining himself in Alfred's life, for fuck's sake.

He didn't want to feel like a-- a thing. A thing that had experienced something wonderful and intimate and exceptionally arousing to remember, but still, a Thing.

The other Arthur in his brain reminded him that, well, he hadn't expressed any deeper feelings, either, at least not really. But surely his emotions had been plain? Of course they had. Everyone could read him. 

Unless they were as clueless as Alfred was. _You are emotionally distant,_ Mariel Jones had written to her husband. Well, Arthur had thought then, it took one to know one.

Alfred called once and Arthur's heart stopped as he felt his phone buzz in his pocket, and then thumped hard against his ribs when he saw who it was. He didn't answer. Alfred spoke to Arthur's voicemail. "Hey. I still wanted to try and talk, but if you're not going to answer ... It's hard to explain what's in my head, and I'm definitely not gonna do it over voicemail. Can we meet for drinks, or coffee, or something? Call me if you want to. Bye."

No, Arthur thought, ignoring the shiver the mere sound of Alfred's voice produced in his belly. He deleted the message. He needed to move on, to learn to be normal again. To not think about the taste of Alfred's sweat, or the way he gasped when Arthur touched his ridiculous nipple-ring. That way lay madness, obviously, or Bella and Monaca wouldn't duck and shuffle off every time they spotted him.

He holed himself in his office and worked harder. He asked his trainer for extra workouts, to occupy his mind and wear himself out.

Once he'd had a few days of moping, however, things only got worse. In addition to the pain of his unrequited love, a sense of guilt began to trickle into his already roiling mess of emotions. When he held the stage of their entire acquaintance in his mind's eye and replayed their scenes together in that way his brain liked to do, that guilt shone a spotlight on things Arthur had missed or ignored in his haze of lust and betrayal. 

Expected betrayal, if he were honest -- he'd just been waiting for it, hadn't he? And ever since the beginning, Alfred had been trying to pretend, very badly, that he didn't care about his divorce. Being emotionally distant. Arthur's heart began to ache even more, not only for himself but for Alfred: his wife had left him for another man.

That last night, Alfred had been clearly upset. Yes, he'd said some rather rude things -- _not like you didn't get anything_ \-- but then, so had Arthur. 

_It was a lovely fuck, thank you,_ he'd said. Arthur cringed inwardly every time he remembered saying that, and the tone of voice he'd used. Once while driving he cringed outwardly, actually winced in traffic, causing him to swerve. A taxi screeched past him, the driver blaring the horn and waving his middle finger out the window. Arthur had been so distracted he hadn't even mustered up the resolve to make a return rude gesture.

Perhaps pain was actually making him a better person? Probably not. 

By Friday Portia had gotten tired of his radio silence and demanded to come over. She showed up directly after work, asked for tea instead of wine, and sat on his couch with crossed arms. 

"I was going to drive up to Milwaukee tonight, but I decided to wait until tomorrow because I was worried about you," she accused in a voice that carried all the way into the kitchen, where Arthur was setting the electric kettle to boiling.

"Why ever would you worry?" Arthur called back, that time making sure his tone was as guileless as possible.

"Something's wrong with you. When I called to tell you about Yong, you didn't even tell me how love at first sight doesn't exist. You always tell me that."

"Should I have?" he said. He'd never used to believe in love at first sight. Well, he'd never believed in love. Had it been first sight for him? Yes, he decided, because he felt like he'd been foolish for ever.

"No, because you're always wrong when you say it. Still, it wasn't like you?"

"Oh." Perhaps he was transparent only to those who knew him best and longest? Or perhaps he'd made for himself a reputation for cynicism and it was expected of him? Perhaps ... he was being exceedingly self-centered, wasn't he? There was another point off his score, joining the points he'd already lost with the guilt and the cringing.

The kettle boiled. He poured the water into the teapot and put the teapot on the tea tray. He loaded the tray and carried it into the front room. "Thank you for worrying," he said. "Are those new boots?"

Portia stretched out one leg. "Oh my gosh, yes! Aren't they adorable?" Arthur would more have called them _dangerous_ , to both the wearer and any unwary passersby, with those skyscraping, pointy heels and the silver spikes scattered about the cuffs. "I got them on sale at Nordstrom, and -- hey, you're distracting me, aren't you? Did you go to the cocktail party at Mister Glasses's place?"

Arthur set the tea tray on the table. "Yes."

"What happened?"

"Things," Arthur said, pouring a cup for Portia and then one for himself.

"Sexy things?"

Arthur sighed. "Yes."

Portia raised her eyebrows. "You don't seem very happy about it."

Arthur sighed again. "I'm not. We had ... a disagreement." He gave her a very edited version, which basically said that they'd had sex and Alfred had moped over his absent wife and thus Arthur had gotten mortified and left.

Portia blew on her tea and sipped it. "Well, he was right to be guilty about her, though he probably shouldn't have taken it out on you. I'm indignant on your behalf, because he shouldn't have seduced you if all he wanted to do was try and forget his wife. Jerk."

Arthur had started to pour milk into his tea but paused. "Well, I wouldn't say it was he who'd started-- who was ... doing all the seducing."

Portia sighed and set her teacup in its saucer. "Oh, Arthur. So what's the real problem?"

"I feel stupid. I can't even say it aloud," Arthur said. And then thought about what he'd just said, and wondered if the same situation had applied to Alfred. He'd said he was trying to get better at stuff. When he'd said stuff, he'd meant communicting, hadn't he? 

God, I am such an idiot, Arthur thought. Well, Alfred was an idiot, too, but Arthur was a bigger one. For getting involved in the first place, for falling in love with someone who (a) was a client or ex-client, (b) was married, and (c) couldn't express himself any better than Arthur could.

"That sounds terrible. It also sounds like something you should make yourself tell me, because it'll be good for you and I'll die of curiosity if you don't," Portia was saying. 

_No, I think you should tell me._ Arthur felt his cheeks warm. He took a deep breath. "Fine. I'm in love with him. But he's in love with his wife, not me. That makes me sad and foolish and ... jealous."

"Oh, you can't help who you love," Portia moaned. She gave him a quick hug, making him nearly spill the milk, but he was glad for the sympathy. He poured a few drops of milk into his tea and stirred it to cover the tightness in his throat and, probably, his expression.

"Tell me about your carpenter," Arthur said. That time it was definitely a distraction.

"Well, I sort of did. But of course there's tons more." Portia grinned. She told him how they talked every night, and how Yong had said he'd consider moving to Chicago, because he could find work anywhere he was happy. He loved sushi and traveling to Japan -- he had family there -- and he'd love to take Portia there for some sushi at the source. She looked joyful, moreso than Arthur had ever seen her when talking about a man, and Portia had talked about a lot of men. 

"I want you to meet him," Portia added. "Can I bring him by next weekend? Saturday?"

"Yes, of course," Arthur said.

"But what will you do?" Portia asked. She finished the last of her tea and held her cup out for more. Arthur plucked off the cozy and poured. 

"Probably nothing," he said, not even pretending to misunderstand her.

She raised an eyebrow at him and over-sugared her tea as usual. "Do you want to give it a chance? When things have had time to settle down? I mean, he's obviously interested, at least. Was the sex good?"

Arthur definitely blushed at that. "Yes. Very good. Very, very good."

"Gosh, you're red. So what's the problem?"

Arthur sighed. Yes, he had nosy friends, but damned if talking about it aloud didn't clear his head. "I don't wish to set myself up for more heartache, because I've discovered that when it's real, it's awful." He actually choked a little on the last.

Portia frowned in sympathy and patted his arm. She let him sip his tea before continuing in a gentle voice. "It might be worth the gamble. I've seen you in Las Vegas. You aren't a wussie, Arthur."

"No, but I'm not usually such a cock-up, either. I just don't know how to properly behave around the man." He sipped his tea. "Maybe. I'll see, when I'm ready."

"Just call him! You won't get anything or know anything just sitting around."

"I'll think about it."

"Nnnngh, Arthur, you are driving me nuts. Fine." She waved at him, signaling her surrender. "When you're ready."

Arthur nodded. He didn't hold high hopes for ever reaching that point, but one never knew.


	5. Chapter 5

Calling would have been the right thing to do. Alfred had made the gesture, and so it was up to Arthur, who was hardly blameless in the whole situation, to do the same in return.

But by Monday Arthur still hadn't called Alfred. At that point it had been an entire week; what would he say? "Er, sorry it took me so long. I've been too busy with ill-feeling and self-recrimination?"

The Portia in his head -- or the other Arthur, perhaps, since it was his voice -- told him to just do it. _We could clear up this misunderstanding, or at least clear the air and get everything out, with one phone call,_ it said. _Make the call!_

Still, Arthur didn't do it. He did stop glaring around the office, and the staff began to cautiously creep back into his orbit.

By Tuesday the timing was no better. And Andersen had worse in store for him. He buzzed Arthur at nine fifty-five, just as Arthur was getting ready for his department review with Lili, and asked him to come to his office to talk.

Lars looked dreadful. His hair lay flat and lank upon his head, which it never did, and the skin around his eyes was pink and puffy.

"Did you just get in? Are you ill?" Arthur said, as soon as he saw him.

"Yes, and no. I have -- I have a family emergency and need to leave early today. I'll be out tomorrow, and probably Thursday as well."

Arthur sat and leaned forward. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?"

Lars swiped a hand across his forehead. "Just keep things going. I've cleared my schedule, except for -- can you cover my hearing tomorrow? Jones? There won't be a problem with the court, any more than when we switched the first time. I can call and clear it with Al. Francis Bonnefoy will be there -- nice fellow -- but my appearance is not something I can trust to an associate, no matter how excellent."

Arthur sat back and forced his jaw closed, else it would have hung open. Yes, this would be that week, wouldn't it? He could hardly have avoided hearing about it, even if he'd actually been trying to avoid it. "Can you not continue the hearing?"

Lars shook his head. "I agreed to the date and Ludwig finagled it with the court. I'm not sure how he managed to get such an early hearing date, but I don't want us to be at fault for messing with it. Plus we busted our asses getting everything ready and signed and agreed and notarized in time."

"Er," Arthur said again. "I would, except ..." He daren't continue.

Lars leaned forward and clasped his hands. Rather, he wrung them. "Can you please tell me, Arthur, why you dropped the case?

Arthur took a deep breath. "Lars, Alfred Jones and I had ... we had an attraction, and a disagreement over that, thus my transfer of representation to you. And since then we have had certain relations, which, while they do not continue, should preclude me ethically from working on his case." He winced inwardly, waiting for Lars to express shock and disappointment at the very idea of Arthur doing such a thing.

Astonishingly, Lars only shrugged. "Well, if it's not still going on, then there shouldn't be a problem. Unless you don't think the two of you can deal together for the length of time the hearing will take?"

Arthur's jaw did drop at that. "No, civility is not the issue, of course."

Lars leaned back in his chair and cupped his chin in his hand. "Then as long as Al is amenable, I'll notify the court." Arthur started to say something else, but then Lars's face crumpled like a piece of tissue in his fingers. "God, I think my marriage is failing. I think my wife wants to leave me. I need the time off to -- to see if we can't work things out--"

"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that--" Arthur began.

Lars hiccupped and waved, asking for a moment to compose himself. He did, somewhat, and continued. "You know, we see it every day, but don't know how it feels until it happens. I'll never take a client's feelings lightly again. But I'm also going to do what I can to stop it. Amy agreed to go down to French Lick with me for a couple of days ..."

Arthur's chest tightened with emotion, for Lars, for himself, for Alfred. Selfishness and empathy went together quite easily, he was discovering.

"Of course I'll attend the hearing, if Alfred Jones does not disagree," Arthur said, though his stomach did a flip-flop at saying it.

"Thank you, thank you," Lars said. He gave a weak laugh. "You know, I can't say that romance has made you any fun. You've been a holy terror for weeks."

"What?" Arthur cried, and then he sighed, past embarrassment. "I have," he admitted. "Sorry about that."

"No problem. Some people, when they go, do it kicking and screaming. Love is like death in a lot of ways. But as long as you're okay." At Arthur's nod, he swung forward in his chair. "I'll have Veni get you the file."

Lars arranged it all, and then he was gone. Arthur resolved to not stress himself overly about the situation, and to not even look at the file until the following morning. Kicking and screaming, indeed. He had strange dreams that night.

Though he did sleep. The next day he was on time again. He did his other necessary work, and when he deemed it the necessary moment, he laid the file squarely on his desk and plucked it open with two fingers -- almost like Alfred had treated the dissolution pleading at lunch that day. They were more alike than Arthur had thought, weren't they? He ignored the now-familiar heartache and guilt that churned in his stomach and forced himself to read the file.

It was complete and ready to go: the terms he'd hashed out with Alfred and F.H. weeks ago had been accepted with only very minor edits. All that remained was to meet everyone at the courthouse at two in the afternoon.

Arthur walked over to the court, leaving in time to arrive fifteen minutes early. There was a crushing breeze, as befitted the Windy City in March, but the sun was shining and the temperature fair enough to put springtime smiles on the faces of the pedestrians around him. Arthur couldn't say for sure if the weather lifted his own mood, but at least he wasn't openly shivering when he arrived at the courthouse and took the elevator up to their assigned courtroom.

Alfred was already there. Of course he was, because Arthur had been one-quarter hoping he would be and that they could talk, but three-quarters hoping he would arrive late and save Arthur the need to say ... whatever it was he needed to say.

Alfred looked tired, but no number of undereye circles could keep him from looking wonderful to Arthur's besotted eyes. When he spotted Arthur it seemed he smiled brilliantly, but by the time Arthur blinked the smile was gone as if it had never been there. A sober expression had taken its place.

"Well, here we are again," Alfred said. "Hello, Arthur."

"Hello, Mis-- Hello, Alfred," Arthur amended, knowing it was far to late to resume Mister Jonesing him. They shook hands, those warm, wonderful hands. "I hope you are well?"

"Not fantastic, but I'm present," Alfred said. He pushed his glasses up his nose with a finger. "Is Lars okay? He said he had a family emergency ..."

"I hope so. I haven't heard from him," Arthur admitted. He fiddled with the file to keep from staring at Alfred, from trying to read his every minute change in expression.

Alfred _hmm_ ed, as if clearing his throat. "You know, your partner's a nice guy, but I wish I'd kept you as my attorney all along." Arthur glanced up at that but Alfred was looking away, seeming to fidget some himself.

Arthur thus wasn't sure how to read that statement. Did he wish he'd never been so moronic as to fire Arthur, or that they'd never acted on their attraction in the first place? And there, once again Arthur had already managed to start second-guessing everything to do with the two of them.

He cleared his throat as Alfred had -- peas in a pod, they were. "Listen. I would like to say that I am--"

"Aaaaaah, Alfred. And Arthur! Together. All of us together again."

Of course that loud voice had come from Bonnefoy, who'd just stepped off the elevator. He was slicked back, shaven and professional for the occasion, and wearing a black suit like he was going to a funeral.

"Hi, Frannie," Alfred called.

Arthur glared at Bonnefoy out of habit, then swallowed over the lump in his throat. "Perhaps we can talk later?"

Alfred nodded. "Yeah, sure. That would be good."

Bonnefoy hugged Alfred and stuck out a hand at Arthur with a very white and very sly grin. "I hope I didn't interrupt you two?"

"By no means," Arthur said, shaking Bonnefoy's hand. He let the _you ass_ hang there unsaid, but present in his tone.

They chatted generally and compared notes about the case for a minute or two. The elevator _dinged_ again and disgorged more passengers.

Arthur stared: it was Ludwig Beilschmidt, another, shorter man he did not know, and an exceptionally stunning and noticeably pregnant woman. This, then, must be Mariel Jones. Arthur realized he'd never seen her photo, because he'd never looked for it. He didn't know what he'd expected -- he'd always imagined some vaguely blondish, faceless woman -- but she was neither of those things. She was tall and had glowing, medium-dark skin and a profusion of chestnut, corkscrew curls tumbling from a knot at the back of her head. Her brown suit was nearly the exact color of the one Arthur owned, but of course the color looked much better on her.

Alfred had gone stock-still. He stared at nothing, at a point just past the newcomers. His hand gripped the back of Arthur's sleeve and Arthur nearly jumped.

"That's Mariel. And Felix," Alfred said through a rictus smile.

"Ah," Arthur said, and glanced back at the group. So the other man was Felix: unlike Mrs. Jones he was indeed vaguely blondish, with shoulder-length hair. He also looked vaguely surfer-ish. He was chewing bubble-gum. "The tall gentleman is Ludwig Beilschmidt."

"He looks like a bodybuilder," Alfred grated out. Still he held onto Arthur's sleeve, but his grip had relaxed somewhat. "So, Arthur. If I tried to kick someone's ass in the courtroom, do you think they'd arrest me?"

Alfred's tone had taken on a dreamy quality. Surely he wasn't thinking about taking on Beilsch-- oh, right. Well, best to nip that in the bud. "Much as I might wish to root you on, yes," Arthur said firmly. "For assault and battery. And most likely fine you for contempt."

"That's too bad," Alfred said. He breathed out long and slow, and released his grip on Arthur's clothing. "And thank you for saying that."

Bonnefoy had gone over to greet the newcomers. Of course: he and Mrs. Jones were acquainted. He hugged her and smiled at Beilschmidt's obvious frown, and the more Beilschmidt scowled, the more Bonnefoy fussed. "I'm sorry we have to see other again like this," he was saying.

"Me, too," Mrs. Jones said. She glanced past Bonnefoy towards where Alfred stood with Arthur. She bit her lip and waved at Alfred, mouthing _hello._ Her dark eyes were wide and sad-looking.

"Hi," Alfred said in a low voice. The scary smile was back.

The door to the courtroom opened. Several people exited, followed by the bailiff. "The state will hear Mariel Jones versus Alfred Jones," called the bailiff. "The Honorable Elizaveta Hedervary, presiding."

They filed into the courtroom. Arthur had worked with Judge Hedervary before. She was firm but fair, and though the description was perhaps cliched, you could say no better thing about a judge.

Everyone was entered into the record and settled, and the judge got straight to business. "I have a full docket today but I hear this one is supposed to be easy. Mr. Jones? Mrs. Jones?"

Alfred and Mrs. Jones both nodded and mumbled _yes, your honor._

The judge put on reading glasses and looked at the files before her. "You two must really want to be divorced. It's exceptionally rare to see a dissolution with this much property go as quickly and smoothly as this."

 _Yes, your honor,_ their replies echoed.

"There is a pregnancy involved, your honor," Beilschmidt added.

"Yes, I see that. Here are the affidavits of paternity, and Mr. Jones's release of paternal rights. The marital agreement has been notarized and properly entered?"

"Yes, your honor," Arthur said. He felt a little pedantic. "I have a file-stamped copy if you need one."

The judge waved him off. "No thank you, Mr. Kirkland. The court keeps very good records."

She had very few questions overall; her full docket was obviously on her mind. Once or twice Arthur or Beilschmidt had to clarify a point of property, but otherwise the hearing proceeded more routinely than Arthur might ever have suspected when he'd initially taken the case. He glanced now and then at Alfred, to see how he was holding up. He appeared relaxed if attentive, and perhaps only Arthur noticed how white his knuckles were, and how he kept catching himself from biting off the end of the ballpoint pen he was rolling between his fingers.

Arthur also noticed how Mrs. Jones kept shifting in her seat. Such might have been attributable to gestational discomfort, but then she often glanced their way.

With a speed that might have been unanticipated in even a lesser case, the judge soon pronounced their dissolution equitable and complete. She signed the order and handed it to the bailiff. Everyone stood.

Everyone, that was, except for Alfred. Arthur tapped his shoulder to get his attention, and Alfred looked almost shocked to see everyone watching him. He scraped back his chair and jumped to his feet.

"Is this it?" he whispered to Arthur.

It was a question Arthur had heard from him before. His finger itched to caress Alfred's cheeks, to rub some color back into them. "This time, yes. As soon as the decree is entered, anyway."

They were dismissed by the bailiff and everyone exited the courtroom as quietly as they'd entered. They stood in the hallway, and Arthur supposed this was the time he should tell Alfred what he wanted to say. As soon as he got rid of Bonnefoy. And as soon as he thought of exactly what it was that he wanted to say.

"Why don't you go outside for a few minutes? Please? I don't care, just go," Mariel Jones was saying. She was talking to Felix, who did not look happy to be ordered away. Wearing a sulky expression, he joined Ludwig Beilschmidt in the elevator. When the elevator doors closed, Mariel Jones walked over to where Arthur stood with Alfred and Bonnefoy.

"Hey, Mare," Alfred said.

"Hi." She nodded at Arthur and Bonnefoy with a shy smile and then looked at Alfred. "Al? Will you please sit with me for a few minutes?" She nodded at some sofas in a small waiting area down the all.

"I guess. Sure," Alfred said with a suspicious-sounding sniff.

Mariel sagged visibly and took both his hands in hers. "Thank you, baby. God, I just want to say ... I don't even know what I want to say but I'll try."

"Me, too," Alfred said. They walked down the hall and sat, holding hands and leaning close, talking in low voices.

Bonnefoy tapped Arthur's shoulder and jerked his head in a "let's go" motion. Arthur nodded and followed him into the elevators. His stomach turned with queasiness, though he'd eaten nothing for lunch. He'd missed his chance. But then, Alfred absolutely needed to talk with his wife -- ex-wife, now -- more than he needed to listen to Arthur.

"Good luck, Arthur," Bonnefoy said as the elevator descended. Arthur prepared a glare but Bonnefoy wasn't even looking at him, was looking at himself and fussing with his hair in the mirrored elevator wall.

"With what do I need luck, F.H.?" Arthur said.

Bonnefoy shrugged. "Just politely wishing you luck. See you later. I'll call you when we're having a party, oui?"

He nipped out through the elevator doors as they opened. Arthur was left with only Bonnefoy's yellow ponytail and black-clad back to glare at as he sauntered out the courthouse turnstiles.

Arthur shook his head. He stood there in the lobby for a few moments, wondering what he should do. Should he wait? Should he --

No, to stand around waiting for Alfred to finish talking to the woman with whom he'd spent eight years would only look foolish and desperate. His original idea, to leave Alfred in peace to deal with his life as he needed and to deal with his own life in return, was still the best idea.

He left the courthouse. As he went down the steps he noticed that man, Felix, lighting up a cigarette directly under a "No Smoking Within Fifty Yards of the Entrance" sign. Arthur had always used to hate those signs with a bloody-minded passion.

Arthur kept walking. He did, however, tap a security guard on the shoulder and point Felix out to him as he passed.

***

Arthur went back to work. He managed to only wonder what and how Alfred was doing every half hour or so, which was an improvement over the previous week.

Lars came back at the end of the week. Things were better, he said. Not perfect, but better. They were taking life day by day. Moment by moment.

Christian, of all people, called and asked Arthur to go out on Friday. Arthur turned him down. He had a painful and bittersweet wank Friday night. Saturday he tidied and made scones for Portia's visit with her Yong. They arrived around two. It was always five o'clock somewhere so Arthur had made wine available, but they started with tea.

Yong was different from what Arthur had expected; he was polite but boisterous and friendly, and like Portia looked younger than his years. He wore his hair in a long ponytail and carried a smartphone with a bejeweled Hello Kitty cover on it. He protested to see Portia dip her scone -- so they'd turned out a little hard -- into her tea. He seemed a fitting counterpart for Portia, who had been known to overwhelm quieter men.

By three they'd moved onto the wine. Arthur drank slowly, not wanting to let the alcohol relax him into maudlin behavior. It was lovely to see Portia happy, but having her here as part of a couple put Arthur's lonely state into sharp relief.

At three-thirty the door intercom buzzed. That happened so rarely Arthur was surprised into staring at the door with raised eyebrows until the intercom buzzed again. "Pardon me," he said, arising. "Strange; I'm not expecting anyone."

He said hello into the intercom and nearly jumped out of his socks when he heard Alfred's voice in reply.

"Hi, it's Al. Looks like you're home. Can I come up for a few minutes?"

"Uh," Arthur said in lame reply. He glanced back at Portia and Yong and they looked quickly at each other so as not to be caught staring. Portia began to whisper something, presumably explanation. Arthur pressed the reply button. "You didn't call--"

"Because I figured the only way to get you was to corner you in your den, ha ha."

Still Arthur stalled. He was in his socks, he had company, his heart was racing fit to make him faint and ... he had no idea what to do. "How did you find out where I live?"

There was a sigh on the other end of the intercom. "Old-fashioned sleuthing. You're in the phone book, Arthur. Listen, if you don't want to--"

Arthur shook his head to clear it. "No, no, of course. Come on up."

"Hoookay."

Arthur looked back at Portia and Yong, who were quite studiously not looking at him. "Ah, sorry, but this shouldn't be long--"

Portia blew out an exasperated-sounding breath. "Stoopid, this is your home. And you definitely need to talk to _him._ "

"Should we leave?" Yong asked.

"No, I need reinforcements, haha," Arthur said. Moments later there was a knock at the door, and Arthur took a deep breath and opened it.

And Alfred was there, wearing jeans and a brown bomber-style ski jacket with a number fifty on the breast over a stars-and-stripes tee-shirt and under a hesitant smile and he looked -- wonderful. "Hi. Oh, God, you have company. No wonder you were -- want me to go away?"

At the sight of him, Arthur felt as if a switch had flipped on somewhere in his brain, lighting up his body, loosening his tied tongue and brain. "No, don't be foolish. I already said to come up, did I not? You've met Portia Galati, and this is Yong Soo,Portia's gentleman friend. This is Alfred Jones, a -- well, I confess I'm not sure how to describe you, Alfred."

"As long as it's nice. Hi again. Good to meet you." He came inside the door and waved at Arthur's company, then stood looking around for a moment. He spotted something on the wall to the left, Arthur's wall of knickknacks, and took a few quick steps for a closer look. "Ooh, are these your souvenirs, Arthur? What awesome stuff! Are these your clay lemurs from Madagascar that you were talking bout?"

Even Portia, who saw those weekly, wouldn't have remembered them. Arthur had mentioned them very briefly to Alfred that night at the bar. Arthur's knees almost gave out as he fell more irrevocably in love than ever.

"Yes. Yes, they are," Arthur said.

Something in his voice or demeanor spurred Portia to stand. She dragged Yong up with her.

"We are definitely leaving you two to be private," she said.

Arthur and Alfred both protested, but she held out her palm in a talk-to-the-hand gesture. "No. Come on, honey." As they passed on their way to the coat closet, Portia made kissy-face at Arthur and then looked at Alfred. "If you manage to hang around that long, maybe we can all do dinner. It'll have to be your restaurant, since we don't have reservations anywhere. Your treat?"

"Absolutely," Alfred said with a grin.

"Goodbye," Yong said after they'd grabbed their coats, and then they were gone.

"So," Alfred said. He had his hands in his pockets and he was rocking back and forth on his heels, another of his teenagerish postures.

"So," Arthur echoed. He opened his mouth to speak, but Alfred beat him to it.

"I tried to look for you after the hearing, but you were gone," he said.

"I felt awkward, because you needed to talk to your wife. And I was hurt," Arthur admitted. Clarity had given him the gift of communication at last.

Something had given it to Alfred as well. "Yeah? Me too," he said. "Because you never called. But I came over anyway, because I thought you were worth pursuing. You're kind of a jerk sometimes, though, Arthur."

Arthur was more warmed all over by that _worth pursuing_ than he was offended by that _jerk_. "And you are a twit," he replied. "I was trying to give you space to deal with ... whatever feelings you had. I got the idea that my being around was not helping you emotionally. It certainly wasn't helping me."

Alfred sighed long and slow, visibly sagging with the release of air and whatever tension had been trapped in it. "You're right."

Arthur only looked at him: to verify that would be overkill, and he didn't want to speak and possibly jeopardize their truce in communication.

Alfred pulled off his coat and raised an eyebrow at the chair sitting in front of Arthur's Louis Quinze. Reminded of their second-to-last meeting, Arthur nodded. Alfred hung his coat over the chair. He plopped himself onto the sofa.

"Wine? Tea?" Arthur stirred himself to ask.

"Not right now, thanks." Alfred crossed his legs, showing socks to match his tee-shirt. "I've warned you that I'm not good at this. And it seems it's always a bad time to really talk for us, anyway. But I'm sorry about that night at the bar. I always had a thing for you, Arthur, though I was trying not to push it. But, well, when I learned I wasn't the father of Mariel's baby I just sorta ... went a little stupid."

 _But, but but._ Arthur knew the feeling. He sat next to Alfred. "I appreciate you saying that."

"Oh. That's good. I'm glad." Alfred did not look at Arthur but watched his own fingers, twiddling in his lap.

Arthur continued. "I had a thing for you, too. And I should have kept a better distance, not only because of our legal relationship, but considering the loss of your marriage and ... everything else as well."

Alfred waved and sniffed. "Unfortunately, our marriage was over months ago. I mean, I worked days and she worked nights. We hardly saw each other, this past year. I guess I just didn't realize we were growing apart so much? Obviously, she found someone else. I thought they were just friends, and she thought I didn't care.

"But it was me, too. Like that night we got together. You and me. I was -- I was feeling guilty and stuff. Being with you and liking that, when, like, she wouldn't even talk to me and it was all my fault that I didn't -- I didn't love her enough to keep her happy."

"Oh, love," Arthur said at the catch in Alfred's voice. He pulled Alfred's head down to his shoulder and patted it. He'd was learning more about Alfred's marriage in these few minutes than he had the entire two months of their acquaintance. It was overwhelming and freeing at the same time. How had he ever thought Alfred full of TMI? And he himself thought his heart was on his sleeve, but he had probably been as transparent as a brick. "I was so jealous and put-upon, too. Pardon."

"Ooh, I like it when you talk to me like that, Arthur," Alfred said, and Arthur pinched his ear. "Ow. But seriously. We talked a lot on Wednesday. When she filed for divorce she wouldn't discuss it because she knew she was pregnant and totally panicked. She sort of knew it was Felix's all along but she couldn't prove it. Her lawyer didn't even know and she just let him call the shots. I'm still ticked about that. And I'm definitely pissed at Felix but I guess I have to move on."

"What else can you do?" Arthur soothed, rubbing the hair behind Alfred's ears. There had been nothing sinister in their divorce all along, only human emotions, human failings making them all behave foolishly.

Alfred twisted his head to look Arthur in the eye. "I'm kind of crazy about you, Arthur. Can we try again, maybe? Now that we're on the same page, at least, even if it's not a clean one? I can't promise to talk about my emotions this well all the time, but can you be nicer to me, you think?"

 _Yes, yes, yes._ Arthur laughed sincerely, the light inside him turned up to level fifteen. For all their hearts were cracked, perhaps both of them might prove to be worth the pursuit. "I will promise no such thing, you ass. But yes, we can try again. Because I'm sort of kind of mad about you."

"I hope that's a British 'mad'," Alfred said. He pulled out of Arthur's clasp and sat up. He leaned in close. "Can we try again, and do it with sex? You make me really hot."

 _Yes, yes, yes,_ Arthur thought again. "How about we take it a little more slowly," Arthur actually said. "You are much too used to getting what you want."

"Already you're not being nice to me," Alfred pouted. But he leaned in for a kiss, and Arthur indulged him in that. And again it was better than Arthur had imagined in the moments before it. There it was, that spark, this time with open, admitted feelings ignited behind it. Would there ever come a time when it wouldn't feel so to kiss Alfred? Arthur hoped not.

They adjusted themselves on the sofa so they could snog more comfortably. And Arthur told himself that simply making out was taking it slowly, no matter if his nether regions felt otherwise. Alfred's did as well, but both of them managed to ignore those facts in favor of snuggling close and saying meaningless things in soft voices.

"Did you know it's my birthday tomorrow?" Alfred did point out during a brief respite.

Arthur consulted his head-calendar. "So it is. But it's too early to wish you happy birthday, so I shan't."

"So mean!"

"So needy!" Maybe Arthur wasn't exactly being nice, but he wasn't being not-nice, either. He was being himself, and vowed that from this point on, any pages written in their relationship would contain nothing short of that. He owed it to both of them. He didn't want to have The Preciseness In Speech talk with himself.

Arthur's resolve to take things slowly, however, only lasted until about halfway through dinner: Alfred was just so ... attractive and charming, speaking Japanese with Yong and making Portia snort her wine by telling her how Arthur's scones were so hard he'd at first mistaken them for souvenir rocks from Antarctica or something.

Arthur managed to keep his hands off Alfred until they exited the restaurant, where the doorman told them "PDA, boys," and their cabbie, an Asian woman of indeterminate age, simply shook her head at them in the rearview mirror. She didn't seem overly scandalized at their teenagerish behavior in the back of her taxi.

But Arthur was giddy, so happy he could have Alfred, guilt-free. His body wanted to throw a party. A sex party.

Back at his home Arthur did manage to make love to Alfred slowly, at first, anyway. Wrapped in his sheets, wrapped around each other so tightly Arthur could barely move, he barely moved, opening Alfred until he was convex, arched against Arthur's pillows. He looked well there.

"I do love you, even if you are very silly," Arthur whispered as he fucked him even sillier, and Alfred made wanton and reciprocal-sounding noises. And afterwards they skipped the cigarette and kept the afterglow confined to Arthur's bed.

At one point Alfred confessed, "If you hadn't let me in today, I was going to stand in front of your building holding a boom-box like John Cusack."

"I'd've never heard you," Arthur said, nuzzling Alfred's ear.

"I know. Good thing you let me come up."

"Hmm," Arthur said, drifting off. Just before sleep, he had a thought. "What song would you have played?"

"Probably _Affair of the Heart._ "

Arthur considered that. "It would have been a good choice," he mumbled.

He didn't care what Lars said: he was having fun, and planned to do so for as long as he could.

***

_Epilogue_

Arthur wondered how it was that, during their long winter, he'd ever wished for warmer weather. It was only the beginning of July and already they'd had weeks of oppressive heat, the days unrelentingly humid and in the nineties. That was much too close to boiling, Arthur's British-born brain kept trying to tell him.

He stood under the covered porch in F.H. Bonnefoy's backyard, sipped the last of a formerly icy margarita with a "Happy Fourth of July!" sign stuck in it, and tried not to sweat. He also tried to avoid staring too long at anyone in particular, because most of the party guests were naked.

It had been billed as a "clothing optional and discouraged" party. Being a party pooper from way back, however, Arthur was keeping his shorts firmly on.

Of course Alfred had gotten into the spirit. He was unclothed and chattering away at Bonnefoy's (also naked) wife, unselfconscious as the day he'd been born. Arthur kept a tight grip on Alfred's fingers at his side and tried to re-follow the conversation, which had lingered too long on the plight of the Chicago Cubs.

"Their farm system is deep. Give them a few years," Chelle Bonnefoy was saying in her French-African-Hawaiian-accented voice. Like her Gallic husband she gestured with sweeping movements as she spoke, sending her various body parts bouncing about. "To be a true Cubs fan, you have to be patient."

"How can anyone be patient when they keep trading their best players away?" Alfred protested.

Arthur was almost glad for the interruption when Bonnefoy (also naked) sauntered by, followed by a (naked) girl carrying a tray of drinks. Bonnefoy leered at them all, showing only a small frown at Arthur's shorts.

He gestured at the girl next to him. "Anyone need their refreshments refreshed? So warm today! The ice melts almost before it hits the bottom of the glass, yes? Oh, if you are afraid of a sunburn, Arthur, we have plenty of sunscreen."

"I am quite comfortable, thank you," Arthur told him. He did toss back the dregs of his margarita and traded the glass for a fuller, colder one. That one had a plastic Uncle Sam stuck into it.

"Ooh, can I have a sip?" Alfred asked.

"You may have one of your own, my dear," Bonnefoy told him with another leer. Arthur had to resist the urge to stand in front of Alfred.

"Not until after I have a swim. I'm a crappy swimmer when I'm drunk."

"You do many things very badly when you are drunk," Arthur pointed out, but he handed over his drink. He'd never used to like sharing beverages, but when you'd swapped as many body fluids as they had, it sort of ceased to be a problem.

He watched Alfred sample the margarita and make a face at the alcoholic kick. It wasn't a bad face -- it was very cute, in fact -- and when he returned Arthur's drink he had salt stuck to the corner of his lip. Arthur wanted to lean forward and lick it off, but not being the exhibitionist everyone else clearly was, contented himself with brushing it away with his thumb. Alfred grinned at him and squeezed his fingers.

Arthur's heart skipped a beat; still he was unused to the idea of being so comfortable with someone he desperately cared for, someone who wanted to be with him _in return._ It was rather breathtaking.

Alfred was far from perfect, but then so was he. And he'd discovered that even after only a few months, intimate relationships of the sort they were conducting came with their own, unexpected issues: annoyances and changed expectations, things that required discussion or at least honesty, things that were still not easy for either of them.

And little things. Like, Alfred hated his alarm clock. Once he'd sneak-reprogrammed it to wake Arthur with dialogue from _Star Wars._ Arthur had given him the Controlling Your Impulses With Other People's Things Talk, and Alfred had countered with a You Blow Things Out Of Proportion lecture. Arthur had spent an hour sulking and trying to re-record his voice exactly as he'd had it. Perhaps he had blown it out of proportion, but still. And there was worse to come: horror of horrors, Alfred did not care for Indian food.

But then, the things Arthur might have expected to be problematic had turned out to be not so much. For one, their relations with Alfred's ex-wife and her new husband were polite and, thankfully, infrequent. And he didn't let Alfred's ridiculous fortune, even as depleted as it was by his divorce, bother him: he had his own home and successful career to worry about. He understood being an overachiever and never resented extra time Alfred spent at work; it would be hypocritical, given that he'd had to clear case files from his sofa so they could sit together and eat Thai takeout in front of the TV.

Portia was learning these things as well. She'd managed to stay the course with Yong, for nearly as long as Arthur had known her to keep any man.

She was supposed to be coming to the party, in fact, though he could not see that she'd arrived. As if on cue his phone buzzed and Arthur pulled it from his pocket. That was a benefit to wearing clothing among the naked: he had somewhere to put his things.

It was a text from Portia. _can you tell htem we're running late sorry? And are you wearing clothes?_

 _Yes and YES,_ Arthur texted back.

"There's one good thing about being naked-- you can enjoy a party without being a slave to technology," Alfred teased.

"It was Portia. They're running late. And you're just jealous because you wish you had somewhere to keep your own phone, addict," Arthur told him.

"Never fear, Alfred; I could help you stow your phone if you really wished," Bonnefoy said, to an accompanying salacious giggle from Chelle.

Arthur narrowed his eyes in what he hoped was a fierce glare. "You're just begging for a furtive shove into the pool when you least expect it, Bonnefoy," he said.

"Your empty threats don't frighten me, Englishman," Bonnefoy told him with a raised eyebrow.

"You guys are too cute," Alfred said. "Like lawyers in love. I just know if it wasn't for Chelle, I'd be out a boyfriend right now 'cause you'd have, like, run off together long ago."

"Then I am doubly glad I have her," Bonnefoy said, raising his glass in a salute. "To love!"

"Cheers," Arthur said, as everyone said it. He drank, and held his glass for Alfred to take a sip, and then he did kiss him, quickly, unable to resist lime and salt and Alfred.

To love, to affairs of the heart: he'd never given second chances, but he'd given Alfred second and third and been given them in return, and most of the moments so far had been worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading if you've made it this far! Thanks to the original requester for the prompt on the Hetalia kink meme. All comments, concrit, etc. are loved and appreciated, especially since this was never beta-read. I tried to write this like an "original romance" with the characters; man, are they screwed up or what? 
> 
> Also, on the kink meme I had different names for some of the side characters but that seemed to take people out of the story more than having guest "nations" dropping in, so I changed them back to canon/fanon names. :)


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